It was over. The funeral was over. Brooklyn had gone and everything around Sam continued. They drove back to the wake at his house, people came in and paid their respects. Friends and family spoke in hushed tones, everyone passed their respects and kind thoughts and Sam heard loved ones meaning well informing him, 'that if there was anything they could do, he just had to ask'. Once Sam had heard this for the tenth time the one thing he wanted to say was, 'unless you can bring Brooklyn back, there is nothing you can do'. He knew they meant well and came from a good place but it was tiring. Sam just wanted everyone to go. Life went on. Louis still needed feeding, changing and sleeps. Life went on. The mourners finally left, his mom and Brooklyn's parents the last to go. He hugged them dearly at the door. He felt with the three grandparents he at least had a fighting chance. The door closed. That night Sam opened a bottle of whiskey they'd got in for Christmas. He sipped his first glass, lost in the melancholy of his thoughts. The glass empty he stared at the bottle. He wanted to pour another glass. He wanted to drink the whole bottle, to descend into oblivion and forget. He imagined Brooklyn looking down on him, how sad she would be to see him in this state, how she would want him to be a good father to Louis. He screwed the lid back on the bottle and went to bed, waiting for life to start again. [hr] When was it going to stop. The days after Brooklyn's funeral were filled with loneliness and sadness. January was grey. The town was cold and grey. Everywhere he looked was drab and muddy. A life without Brooklyn was a life devoid of colour. The streets, the buildings were all drained of life, the people he passed went about their life whilst he was trapped in this miserable existence. Thankfully the phone calls of friends had stopped. It was emotionally draining listening to those calls from people who wanted, but couldn't help. The calls had stopped but then he felt himself pining for someone to talk to. Autumn and Rick still called, but they had their own pain, and their own lives to lead. Patty still came round, but he wondered when life would be 'normal', not that he ever wanted 'normal', because normal without Brooklyn wasn't normal. He had returned to work and put Louis into day care. He needed to provide for the boy and he felt terribly guilty that he wasn't there all day but he didn't have a choice. The quiet at the library helped him deal with his grief and his colleagues gave him the space he needed. He struggled being friendly with the visitors but managed to maintain a distanced politeness. In the store after work, picking up groceries he wondered how everyone else could just carry on. How can life just carry on? Is my grief and Brooklyn's death that unimportant in the scheme of things? How can it be? [hr] Sam spoke about Brooklyn to Louis every day, keeping a photograph of her in his room. She'd watch over him from Heaven, of that he was sure. Each night he kissed that photograph in front of Louis and would put Louis' hand on it, whilst Sam repeated, 'Mama'. [hr] Sam broke down often. Other times he felt resolve. He tried to think what Brooklyn would want. He went into his bedroom and opened her wardrobe where all her clothes were. He intended folding them neatly and donating them to charity. A woman's refuge, a homeless shelter, families in the third world, anywhere where the things she owned could do good. Sam stared at the clothes. Her folded jeans, tops hanging in the wardrobe, shoes in the base. He closed the door. Not now, he couldn't give them away. Not now. He reconsidered and went into the bathroom. Like most women, Brooklyn owned an multitude of soaps, lotions, haircare products. Sam went to dispose of them and gather them in a bag. He put her shampoo in the bag first and sat on the bathroom floor and cried again. He put it back. Not now, not today.