Meet Francine
It happened on a single day, two weeks ago, when my life was broken, shattered. A police officer came to the door with a priest. “Ms. Francine Murray?” He asked. The policeman told me that my parents were dead, killed in a car accident, an oncoming bus; they died instantly. I crumbled into a chair and sat there, frozen, not knowing how to respond.
A love story in five chapters.
Chapter one — Brannon.
Two weeks later, after a short funeral, I invited friends and relatives into my parent’s home for something to eat and drink. My parents had only recently bought a house in Bowness, the Lake District.
I couldn’t afford to move them back to Glasgow to be buried, and my parents didn’t know anyone in the town. So, friends and relatives traveled from Scotland, including mom’s sister and her husband, Jack, and Gilda; they are mean and don’t care about anybody but themselves.
My husband divorced me a year ago, after ten years. He never got on with my parents and didn’t show up for the funeral, which was small and short. Then, before I knew it, it was over. The following day I packed, ready to head…
