Gazing down over the rooftops and trees from the window of my new maisonette, I felt so content. ‘I'm going to like it here,’ I said to my daughter Emily, then 26.
It was June 2015 and I'd just moved in.
Eight months earlier, I'd been rushed to hospital in agony with a perforated bowel.
I'd emerged from a coma to find out I'd had sepsis and peritonitis.
My four children had been told to prepare for the worst. Yet I'd clung on to life.
Fitted with a stoma in my tummy, now I was happy to be making a new start.
The neighbours were friendly.
I was right about my prediction, and five happy years passed in my flat.
But one morning, when I walked into the building, I…
