Grief therapy was terribly difficult, even with the best therapist I could have asked for. I was Sisyphus pushing the rock of question-laden grief up the hill, only to find it at the bottom again the next day, or the next hour. Was this my fault? What could I have done differently during the children’s early years? How could I have supported Peter better as a young adult living two thousand miles away? It was a puzzle I couldn’t solve – and couldn’t put down.

Is my son who committed suicide the lost sheep whom Jesus seeks?