“Do you want me to come with you?”

“It’s up to you. It might get ugly.”

“Well, I can stop that from happening.”

“I might not want you to.”

“Amelia, my mother is troubled. I’m not condoning what she has done, but just speak to her before you get angry.”

“Fine. You’d better come with me and keep the peace then.”

I had one more sip of tepid tea and arose from the couch; we both exited the house and got in my car. On the ten-minute drive to Yvonne's house, Poppy shared even more stories where James was right about something. He seemed to have genuine psychic abilities, and the stories she told me rang true to my own. From what Poppy had described, James just loved helping people, and he had definitely been of assistance to me. I felt a need to thank him properly; if it hadn’t been for him, I would have never gone down this road and would have lived the rest of my life in blissful ignorance.

We arrived at Yvonne’s house, and for once, the back door was shut. Poppy raced ahead of me on the driveway and tapped on the front door. Yvonne answered, looking as though she had just woken up despite it being midday. I was feeling a mixture of excitement and worry. I wanted to finally unmask Yvonne as the horrible and spiteful woman that she was, but I had no idea how she would react.

“Mum, you look awful!” Poppy jabbed.

“Thanks, love,” Yvonne croaked to Poppy. “Hi, Amelia,” she said to me through a thin veneer of politeness.

“Good afternoon,” I said sarcastically.

“I suppose you all better come in.”

I was stunned. The house looked like it had been ransacked. There were smashed glasses and plates thrown all over the floor. We all watched our steps carefully as we made our way through the hallway and into the living room; it seemed to be the least affected by whatever had happened there. Yvonne had dispensed of her no smoking in the house rule and openly lit a cigarette up as she sunk into the sofa.

“What’s happened, mum?” Poppy asked.

“John and I had a disagreement, and he didn’t come home last night,” Yvonne responded.

I didn’t give a damn about their petty disputes.

“Anything to do with lies, manipulation, or perhaps blackmail?” I asked wryly.

“So, you visited Becky. Come on then, out with it. Do your worst,” Yvonne goaded.

“Why would you do all that to me?” I asked.

“Because, sweetheart, you are a grotesque, vapid woman, and you were never good enough for him.”

“All I ever did was love your son. That was my only crime. And you’ve hated me from the start.”

“Not from the very start. But I saw the change in Harry, and I knew it was because of how you treated him. That’s when I started hating you.

“She’s pathetic,” I said to Poppy in a desperate bid to garner some support.

“I’m pathetic? The only way you could keep hold of a man was by isolating him from his friends and his family,” Yvonne shouted, pointing in my face.

“Isolating him? What on earth are you talking about?”

“It did feel like that, sometimes,” Poppy added.

“So, you agree with her?” I barked.

“Harry and I used to talk almost every day, but as soon as he met you, I barely heard from him,” Poppy admitted.

“What has that got to do with me?”

“I don’t know, and forgive me if I’m wrong, but it did look as if you were trying to keep him away from his family and friends. We’d always been as close as siblings can be, but as soon as he moved in with you, that changed,” Poppy said as diplomatically as she could.

Harry and I were in love. No one could understand how powerful it was. Yvonne and Poppy were making me out to be some kind of monster, keeping Harry locked away in Manchester. They were wrong, and it wasn’t like that at all. I’d always treated him with the utmost respect and rightfully expected he would reciprocate. I didn’t isolate him at all; I just liked spending time with him, and Manchester was a better place to do so. Not to mention that Harry came to Manchester willingly; it was even where we first met. How dare she throw these accusations around, especially when Harry wasn’t here to back me up.

“I loved Harry!” I shouted.

“I’m not saying you didn’t,” Poppy started, holding her hands up, “but some of the stories he told us—”

“What stories?” I asked.

“The arguments. The horrible things you said to him. And the violence,” Yvonne maliciously interjected.

“What violence?”

“He told me about the pills, the alcohol, and the fights, too, Amelia. I just always thought it would resolve itself,” Poppy shot from the hip with venom.

“Oh, so now I have a problem with drink and drugs?” I yelled.

“We aren’t saying that. He just told me when you’d had a drink, sometimes you got aggressive,” Poppy explained.

I’d show them aggressive, I thought. Poppy was lying outright to hurt me or, at the very least, misconstruing whatever Harry had told her. Yes, we had our moments, but all couples do. I definitely didn’t have a problem with drink and drugs either, but after everything I’d been through, could I be blamed? Our arguments rarely got physical. There might have been the odd smashed plate or impulsive slap across the face from me over the years, but that was normal, wasn’t it? We were in a passionate, committed relationship, and when feelings that strong are involved, those kinds of arguments are inevitable. They were making it sound so one-sided, but Harry gave as good as he got. But I wouldn’t tell them that because I didn’t want to tarnish his memory with them. All of the details aside, my relationship and marriage to Harry were none of their business.

“So now I am some kind of abuser? Anything else?” I screamed mockingly.

“Amelia, calm down. I’m just repeating what I’ve been told,” Poppy said, backing away from me slightly.

“I will not calm down. I’ve done nothing but love and honour Harry. How would you feel if someone accused you of that?” I shouted.

“Disgusted. Absolutely disgusted in myself,” Yvonne answered.

“Well, it isn’t true. You don’t know what happened behind closed doors,” I said.

“Agreed,” Yvonne said, looking increasingly more agitated the longer the conversation dragged on, “I think you should leave.”

“Oh, I’m leaving. I don’t have to put up with this,” I reviled.

I got up, burst through the front door, and slammed it as hard as I could on my exit. I strode back to my car and screamed into the steering wheel as loudly as I could. Everything they’d said was gratuitously over-exaggerated and twisted. I fully admit to having arguments, but show me a marriage that doesn’t have disputes. I never set out to isolate Harry from his loved ones, and I would never do that to him. I hated them all, all of his family and friends. I wanted to line them up and scream the truth in each of their faces.

The comment about alcohol was really grating at me. When you looked at Harry’s mother, I was teetotal in comparison. The most I’d admit to was liking an occasional drink. Did it turn me into a domestic abuser as soon as I’d had a drop? No. And in the months leading up to Harry’s death, I’d barely touched it. Was I misremembering our marriage, and I really was abusive? If Harry did decide to jump off Filey Brigg, did I contribute to that decision? I found myself carefully going back through every single argument and counting each time it got physical.

I stopped when I ran out of fingers.