If my boys knew I was writing a will they’d lose it. They’re already scared, and angry, and confused. They’d think I was giving up. After my last appointment, though, my wife and I know the truth. It’s game over. The thing’s come back and it’s worse now. The doctor didn’t want to give a time, but after my wife pushed he said it was probably a matter of weeks rather than months.

 

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I love all my boys. It’s a straightforward will, really, because I’m just splitting everything between them. Three ways. There’s only one thing different — one extra thing — and it’s not something I can put in writing. It’s far too special for that.

 

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I’m giving the box to Michael. He’s my middle son. 14 next month. He’s a quiet kid, sort of shy and distant, and he doesn’t have many friends at school. He reminds me of me at his age.

 

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I did my first when I was 14. Her name was Sally. She was a few years younger than me and I hadn’t meant to, but she started crying partway through and I got scared someone would hear her.

 

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The box is news cuttings, mostly. 30 years’ worth. All folded up neat. There are polaroids, too. 16 of them. One for every one but Sally. Some of them are a bit faded now, but each still has a name and a date on the back. Then there are the instructions. A guide, really. Something I’ve been working on in my study over the past couple of days for Michael. To make it easier for him.

 

So it can all be his one day.