George told me how it would be. “Nobody wants roses any more, Mum.” Once I would have argued. Put my foot down. Told him he could do what he wanted with other people’s places but leave mine alone. Now watching him culling them one by one, I pace the lounge room and my orthotic sandals clack on the cold tiles. A ticking clock. Since Ted died two years ago, I’ve been all at sea. The Charlotte I knew, the old tenacious Charlotte, vanished with Ted’s last breath, and a limp spectre emerged in her place, disoriented and grief-stricken. George promised…