The smell of burning rubber haunts me still. 3 years. 7 months. 12 days. Your crys of laughter blur with those of despair. Lily Rose Camble. Each letter so small etched into that marble slab.

Your room still sits waiting, toys standing eager. I drove by the park today, it was nice to see the swings in use again. The lamp post still bent out of shape, the tyre dug trench blossoms though. A young boy ran laps round his mum, swinging his toy plane around, up and down, left and right. He reminded me of you. I bet you two would’ve been good friends. You’re in everything.

My sweet Lily. The friend someone never met. The lover someone never had. I’m sorry. 3 years, 7 months, 12 days sober. The man I should have been for you.

Dad.