It's hard being that woman, the one whose husband disappeared.
He went out five years ago for a pint of milk and never came back. So here I am with a daughter who blames me for everything, a son trying his best to pick up the pieces and a gaggle of neighbours who are incredibly nosy. Then I find a left luggage ticket in the pocket of one of his old coats and suddenly I'm thinking... What's if he's not dead? What if he's still out there somewhere?
