The social worker rang the doorbell later that day, just after lunch. Mrs Ely ignored it, ground her teeth and leaned forward in the chair, fists clenched tightly in front of her. She felt ungracious, muttering “Piss off, will you?” to herself, but she said it anyway.
Her social worker was a middle-aged lady who meant well, but her visits made Mrs Ely angry. After all, that woman was part of the outside world, part of the overwhelming web of circumstance that had killed her Carl. She really only served to remind her of tragic events. Of her travesty.