Two years ago my mother died of cancer. I was glad to be there for her. For me. To have that time, despite the dismal spectre in the room with us. We spent those last few days talking, reminiscing. Avoiding all but the happiest memories that included my father.

Then, "Maybe it was something I'd done," she said. "Or didn't do."

No, Ma, not you. It was me. If I'd only gone fishing with him that day.

"Course not, Ma," I'd assured her.