Megan Matthews stops on the step at the front door of the bungalow before pushing the key into the lock.
‘I’m home,’ she calls, knowing full well no one will answer. Not anymore. Never again.
The place is silent; there is no irritable retort from behind the door to the room on the right, no ginger tom snaking around her ankles, yowling to be fed and stinking the place out. No more demands on her time to bring this, take that away. No more guilt dumped on her for being ten minutes late; no accusations that she must have a man on the go if it took her more than the usual twenty minutes to walk from the shop to the house.
As though she’s ever had the opportunity to form a relationship with anyone, when she’s surrounded by a shopful of silly young girls, who flutter their…
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