You're a prison I can't escape, you're a decision I never make. (Ben Harper)

The next week I waited in the tea garden but the only person who came was Christian's mother.

She sympathetically explained how he was at wit's end. All he wanted was me to be clean, safe and happy. I knew that. Then she told me something I didn't know.

“Do you know why I named him Christian?” she asked.

“You wanted him to be a Christian?”

“No,” she smiled, “but I did. I named him after his grandparents' son.”

“Oh right, I knew that.”

“But did you know why I named my Christian after their Christian?”

I shrugged. “Respect?”

“I loved him.”

“Their Christian? I thought he died before you met.”

“He did,” she confirmed. “I met him through his parents. I saw his pictures, watched his home movies, heard the stories of his life, read his journals and letters. I fell in love with him without ever meeting him. It sounds crazy, I know. I fell in love with a dead person. I've only ever told Christian and his grandparents. I suppose there was no one else to tell really.”

What was I supposed to say to that? I was drawing a blank.