Free Sweet Peas in April by Clare Revell Page A

not a day goes by that I don’t miss him.”
    Dad took LaVera’s hand and squeezed it.
    “He fell asleep one Sunday afternoon, same as always, only he never woke up. Sudden adult death syndrome the doctors called it.”
    “Oh…” Sam’s heart stopped and tears filled her eyes. She swallowed hard, wishing fervently she hadn’t asked. She remembered standing over Imogen’s cot, staring down at the dead body of her daughter.
    Adam took her hand under the table. “It’s OK.”
    “Did I say something?” LaVera asked.
    “We lost our daughter to cot death just over ten years ago,” Adam said as the drinks arrived.
    “It’s hard,” LaVera said. “We want answers that never come because the doctors don’t have any.”
    Sam nodded. “Yeah.” She rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. She wanted to be here even less. She wanted to run and hide and give into the grief and pain that had never left her. “Whoever said time heals all wounds lied. Some wounds are too deep to ever go away.”
    LaVera nodded. “He slept, I went out, came back, and he was gone. I blamed myself for a long time. If I’d woken him earlier, insisted he went for a walk with me or not let him have seconds of pudding, then maybe... But nothing would have changed it. I know that now.”
    Tears rolled down Sam’s face.
    “Losing a child to this must be harder. How old was she?”
    “Imogen was six months old.” Adam said.
    “She was a beautiful baby,” Dad said. “Just like her mum.”
    “I have a photo.” Adam pulled out his wallet and held out the photo. The corners were battered and it was obviously well-fingered and loved.
    Sam caught a glimpse as he handed it across. She sat cross legged on the sofa, a beaming Immy in her arms. “I didn’t know you kept that.”
    He nodded. “Always.”
    “She’s lovely,” LaVera said, handing back the photo.
    Sam took it and gazed downwards. She looked so happy. Her arms ached to hold the baby she’d lost. She could almost smell the baby powder and the uniquely Immy smell that clung to the bedding and clothes and toys.
    Grief overwhelmed her and she pushed back from the table. “Excuse me.” She ran towards the exit, sobs choking her, tears blinding her vision. She leaned against the front wall of the building, sobbing, the chill night air surrounding her.
    “Sam?”
    She looked up. Then Adam’s arms were around her and she clung to him, wishing he’d been there all those years ago, so she wouldn’t have had to face this on her own. After a few minutes, when the storm of tears passed, she pulled back.
    Adam pressed a clean hanky into her hand. “Are you OK?”
    Sam nodded. “I’m sorry…”
    “Don’t be. They understand. So do I.” He paused. “We should go back in.”
    She nodded and took the offered hand, walking back inside the restaurant with him. They sat just as the food arrived, and she looked at her father. He smiled slightly at her but said nothing.
    Once the waitress had gone, Dad said grace.
    Sam looked at her plate, wanting it even less than she had in the first instance. She picked up the salad crème. “How did you and Dad meet, LaVera?”
    “In church, at the seniors’ lunch. I’d gone with a friend, and we sat at a different table to our usual one. This gentleman sat opposite me. I looked at him and these dark eyes sparkled across the table. Beaming smile, perfect teeth—you know, the kind you hate because yours are horrible and breaking.”
    Sam smiled faintly. “Oh, yeah.”
    “And he looked at me and said, ‘What’s a fine looking woman like you doing in a dingy church hall like this?’”
    Dad grinned. “And she said, ‘Having dinner.’”
    LaVera chuckled. “And he says, ‘That’s a coincidence, so am I.’ And we have been together ever since.”
    “Sam,” Dad said. “It doesn’t mean I’m forgetting your mother, any more than LaVera is betraying Stan. I see your mother all around the house—in that rose bush she was forever pruning in the