Janet knelt on the worn hassock, her head resting on her clasped hands. She stared glassy-eyed at the dull image of Christ in a murky stain glassed window behind the alter.
This wasn’t how her life was meant to be. Thirty six, widowed and mourning the loss of a child.
It should have been perfect. It had been perfect.
And now she felt bereft and lost.
A thin slither of light shone through a blue shard and a small hand patted her shoulder.
‘Come-on, Mum, this place gives me the creeps. Let’s go to the park and feed the ducks.’