Poor, poor Fran...

I really feel for the main character in my latest book. Her name is Fran and her husband has just died under the most horrible of circumstances. But as if that is not enough, misery upon misery is being heaped on the poor woman's shoulders.

Here is the paragraph I have just written:

 The house seemed wrong in every way possible. It felt too big, too empty and too full of memories - sad and happy ones – and it seemed that no distinction between the two could ever make her smile again.

There was a letter lying on the mat. Addressed to Jim, it would of course no longer be opened by the person for whom it had been intended. Fran bent and picked it up, running her finger over the little plasticised window which allowed the name and address of the recipient to show through, as if some lingering trace of Jim could be found in those printed words.

The white envelope was not bulky, containing perhaps only one printed sheet. She carried it with her into the kitchen.


Oh dear God, I know what she is about to read in that letter...