And in 2019, when a woman at a firm wrote four paragraphs telling him that his daughter had come out of care at eighteen and was living on her own on Carrow Road.
He has given me four different reasons for sixteen years.
Three of them are perfectly good reasons and he believes all three.
Only one of them is honest, and it is the one he said last — at about the ninety-minute mark, looking out of a window, not at me.
He said: “Because the longer it went, the worse the conversation got.”
Which I understood immediately. Completely. Inside about half a second.
And which I wish, more than anything else in this, that I had not.
Ilse Marrow died on the eleventh of March, 2024.
And he did nothing at all for another eighteen months after that.
Which is the part he cannot explain. He has tried four times and stopped trying in the April.
