"What do you mean my son is dead?"
My heart is pounding in my chest. My lips are trembling. I clasp my sweaty palms tight, hoping I had heard her wrong.
There is no way that's what she said. I must have misinterpreted her words. Or maybe I am going deaf. Anything but hearing that my son died three years ago.
"I'm so sorry for your loss Ms Darling—"
"No! Don't tell me that! My son can't be dead! It is impossible."
"People die every day miss, your son isn't an exception," the warden's colleague chips in.
I turn to face her. I can feel my face reddening from anger and I don't care if I will have to put it out on her, "Don't tell me that bullshit! My son isn't dead. He can't die! Not now!"
