He had already left the hospital, and he still had no idea about how he would tell her. ‘Your Mum isn’t coming back’. Too harsh. ‘Mum isn’t coming back’. More personal. Too personal for him, too … what was the word? … evasive for her. Evasive yet brutal: not an ideal combination for a three-year-old. ‘Mum has gone to heaven’. No way. He’d spent too many years in the back of ambulances, in hospital, in front rooms, attaching masks, stretching for the oxygen hose to believe any of that; he’d watch people slip away and, sure, he would sometimes imagine their souls evaporate from their bodies like steam rising from a mug of tea, but that was just a way of marking the moment, a way of conjuring up a world apart from the tubes and drugs and hectic journeys on clogged A roads. And yes, she was gone. Personal this time. Her soul had evaporated. Or, to remember the scene as clearly as his hazed, flickering vision would allow, she had finally closed her own eyes behind the huge, sucking mask. He’d been off-duty by then, thank goodness; compassionate leave to soften the blow: ‘time to take off your uniform; you’re a Dad, a husband’. Dave, his boss, had patted him on the back, a slightly pinched expression on his face. Gone. Off-duty forever. No more beeps from the heart monitor. A body is a body. Personal this time. The body he’d touched literally thousands upon thousands of times. ‘’You’re as old as the woman you …’’. The body he’d entered thousands upon thousands of times in love, or lust, or delirious exhaustion, the body which had split open in childbirth, discharging yet more love, bringing forth yet more fatigued haze. Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life ..? Or, in the words of the dog-eared poster on the walls of the paramedics’ kitchenette: ‘feel the fear and do it anyway’. He’d felt the fear in the ambulances and the hospital wards countless times and he’d done his job anyway, on a constant adrenaline high. Now it was his turn to relay bad (bad??!!) news. Why should a … father have to tell his daughter that her mother isn’t coming back. Too harsh. He’d left the house early this morning, 0330 on the glowing screen of his phone. Rattles on the bedside table, a missed call, and then, shortly afterwards, once he’d opened his eyes, the text bubble ‘come ASAP’. Caitlin had crawled into bed beside him in the dead of night, wearing the tiger onesie they’d picked up at the charity shop for the moments when she felt scared or sad or cold. ‘Put this on’, they’d said, ‘when you feel the fear walking behind you’. The problem was that, in feeling the fear, stalking her like a tiger, she’d done it anyway, she’d started wetting the bed again; every morning was a palaver of laundry. But, at least she was breathing, here, now: a sweet-smelling tiger. Her soul hadn’t evaporated like steam from a mug of tea. See you later, my love. He’d paused outside the spare room as well. Aunt Iris hadn’t done a runner in the dead of night; she was firmly in residence. She was still breathing too. So he was free to go. And now, he had already left the hospital and he had no idea of what he would tell her. His mind felt bleached, because he’d peeled off his green-and-yellow uniform. ‘Mum’s gone’, he would say, and Caitlin wouldn’t really understand yet, but something in his rumpled body language would give the game away, and she would run into his arms, screaming. ‘Mum’s gone’, he would say, and she might stand there with wide-open eyes, not sure what to make of the words. Dan and Damian, his longest-standing colleagues at the hospital had given him the number of the local grief helpline two days ago (‘mate, you’re going to find this helpful’) but he hadn’t got through yet. ‘We are experiencing a high number of calls’ the nice-sounding voice had said. Of course you are, he’d thought each time he’d pressed the red handset icon. ‘Mum’s gone’, he would say, his mind bleached, and she might well look at him with her three-year-old gaze and say: ‘why?’ ‘She became ill, you know how she’s not been well’. ‘Why?’ ‘Her body couldn’t carry on fighting.’ ‘Why?’ ‘The thing attacking her was very strong. Like a tiger.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Lots of people are ill. You might feel strong inside, but you get tired after you’ve been fighting for a long time’. ‘Why?’ ‘Because we’re not as strong as we think we are. People like you and me. The whole planet. We’ve been careless’. ‘Why?’ The sun was now rising above the houses, the waving treetops, as he drove the car down the familiar residential roads towards home. Two joggers were running on the opposite pavement, back towards the hospital; a walker, in mac and boots, was crossing the road ahead with a Labrador, pulling on a lead towards the wrought iron gates of the park. Why should a dog..? He pulled over, into a bus stop, to bang his fists hard against the steering wheel. Those words – regurgitated from where in his mind’s hard drive? ‘And thou no breath at all ...’. Old words for sure; he’d always liked the dustier books at school. But now his mind was bleached and the world would carry on. Maybe Caitlin would be able to tell him one day; whoever had thought of them first, well, they had nailed it, the feeling of raw grief. He put the car into drive again. Your mum’s gone. The morning felt fresh, as he parked in the front drive; it was going to be a day of radiant spring weather. In the upstairs window, he caught sight of Caitlin, still in her tiger onesie, waving down at him.