Today the postman brought a large brown envelope. Inside it was a smaller brown envelope. And inside that was a note from one of the girls' birth relatives - a relative we've never met or had any communication with before. It was a lovely note, not long, but hopefully the first of many.
And then there was a knock on the door, and one of the carers who was working with Goldie when Goldie had the accident which led to her death was standing on the doorstep. She didn't want to stay, she just passed me a photograph and ran away again.
It's a lovely photograph. Not a beautiful photograph; Goldie could be incredibly photogenic but she could also become an utter ragamuffin at the merest hint of a click of a camera shutter. This is one of the ragamuffin shots. But what makes it special is that it was taken by one of her carers in the few weeks she was living in her new home. Up until now, apart from the bloated and ventilated post-accident shots, I have only had one photo from that time. And it's not a great one. This one is a scruffy, scuffed, wild-haired, Goldie. A Goldie sitting on the floor in a position that would have the physios weeping, but she is holding toys and smiling and laughing and happy. And she's sitting on the floor - someone took the time to realise she could, and hoisted her out of her wheelchair. A Goldie wearing clothes I've never seen before, clothes which someone else took the time to take her shopping for. A Goldie wearing the rainbow bracelet we bought together from a shop on an island off the coast of Wales. A Goldie who was happy and well-cared for. I take back my earlier statement - it is a beautiful photograph.
And it's a precious gift, and I'm sure delivering it took a lot of courage. And I'm very pleased to have it. But I wasn't expecting it, and I wasn't prepared for it, and I'm not quite sure what to do with it. It's an A4 picture so not small. And I wish I'd thought to ask her if she had any more before she disappeared again. And I wonder if I should be the bigger person, and offer copies to her relatives. And I don't want to. All of which is a little weird to think about, so I think I'll try to concentrate on the fact that I have an extra photo of my precious girl and be happy about that.
And then news about my GodDaughter, Eve.
And then I had a slew of phonecalls, and couldn't think about anything at all except the immediate here and now, which was probably useful. Appointments rearranged, new solutions for new issues, new help and new progress. And Little Fish choked on a chocolate button in the middle of her feeding therapy programme whilst being fed by an assistant as I had the actual speech therapist on the phone arranging an appointment with an additional therapist for March. Which I suppose was helpful as it demonstrated her problems nicely. But we were hoping that she'd made such progress over the past few weeks that she could now manage things better. And she can't.
The phonecalls concluded with a conversation with my grandmother. Who informs me she is buying a Moped. I really hope she means a mobility scooter. I'm pretty sure she does, but I hope the salesman also understands her! The world is not yet ready for my Grannie on a Vespa.
It must be bedtime.