The summer after my mum died, my brother came up with a plan. Rather than mark the first anniversary of her death in London, where we had all lived together, we should take ourselves on the most extravagant holiday possible.
A summer holiday sounded so normal in the face of this and so fun it almost seemed wrong. Shouldn't we be traipsing around in black, soliciting sympathy? Could we mourn while drinking champagne for breakfast? My brother insisted we try.
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