It felt good to come home, although I wasn’t sure what I would find, or how the house would feel. My husband had returned from his flat to look after the dog, and now me in my recovery from the heart attack.

As I opened the door, the dog greeted me. She tends to get excited when she sees me because I fuss her. My husband was in the kitchen smoking by the window. It was good to see him, but I hadn’t missed the smell. I went to him and hugged him and thanked him.

There wasn’t anything you might call food in the house, so I ordered a kebab for delivery. This was clearly not what was recommended by the doctor, however needs must – the husband has promised to get me some groceries in the morning.

Before tea, I had a shower, which was lovely, but a little exhausting.

Watched some trash TV together, I wasn’t up to doing anything more – it seems that getting home, showering, and eating had wiped me out. The dog lay in her basket next to me snoring – I find her snore so peaceful, but the husband gets annoyed by it. Poor darling!

It was shortly before going to bed that I looked at the desk in the lounge and remembered that it was the anniversary of the day we met. I asked “wasn’t there a card there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you open it? It was addressed to you.”

“No. It has a stamp on it.”

“Did you post it?”

“No.”

It had been pushed back under the computer monitor.

I gave it to him.

He then produced a card and gave it to me, which I opened. It was a popup unicorn. He’d written quite a bit on the back of it, including a sentence which read “…this will probably be our last anniversary together…”, which broke us both and we cried and held each other.

Later, in bed, I couldn’t settle. My heart felt heavy within me, yet raced from the day’s exertions.

I am figuratively and literally heartbroken.

Recovery means learning to live with both kinds of pain.