Rob’s parents Prue and David live in Orewa, about a thirty-minute drive north from the centre of Auckland. Like other suburbs in the city, the houses are new builds, set neatly on their own plot of land with carefully tended gardens.

The air is clean, the sky wide and blue, shot through with lenticular clouds that form like white, wispy cigars rolling endlessly against the dome.

Orewa started off as a retirement community and, while it is filled with spry elderly folk, property prices in the city are going nuts due to foreign investors buying up houses, so younger commuters are being drawn to the area by osmosis.

The sea, always present in Auckland like a heartbeat, casting the sound of thudding waves and a salt-tipped breeze through nearby homes, is a five-minute walk from their house.

The vast, beautiful beach, which turns golden on a summer’s day, is very dear to me. During our first trip to New Zealand in 2013, Rob had flown a week earlier to settle in, as jet lag seemed to affect him more than it did me. He and his father met me in the early morning at the airport, the sky still pink and newborn, the air warm and humid.

As we walked to the car, I saw that the licence plate said ‘M1lady’. I looked at Rob.

‘It used to belong to Gran,’ he said, referring to Prue’s mother Lena Lynch. Lena was basically the template for all of the Lynch women – strong, fearless and with a sense of humour that could cut you down and make you laugh, so I’ve been told.

Her husband Cletus went through a phase where he thought personalised licence plates would be the next big thing and ordered a bunch of them. When they didn’t sell for thousands of dollars – who would’ve guessed M1lady wasn’t a big hit? – they were distributed among the family.

‘Big Rig’ sits on Felicity’s jeep while Gabrielle’s car is ‘Farlap’. There is nothing more satisfying than when you’re driving around Auckland and you see Big Rig, M1lady or Farlap parked up and realise someone you know and love is in the area.

Rob and I wanted some alone time, so we went for a walk along the beach, holding hands, nattering about what he’ d been up to. The sky was like blue glass and the tide had long since tugged the sea back to its furthest point. Tiny white birds darted from one patch of sand to another as if they had a nervous tic.

‘What are they?’ I asked Rob, half-wanting to know, the other half of me just loving that the answer would roll off his tongue so effortlessly.

‘Oystercatchers,’ he replied. ‘They look crazed, don’t they?’

Standing in the living room, where his coffin once sat so we could say goodbye to him, look at the hair on his beard, take in every last detail of his face, remembering the shape of his chest, the curve of his thumb, wishing wishing wishing he’d wake up, please wake up, why won’t he wake up, it is impossible to believe that this was barely a year before.

With soft carpet under my feet, sunshine flooding into the room and the distant strains of David playing classical music, it doesn’t feel like anything bad can happen here.

‘Tea?’ I hear Prue call. ‘Yes, please,’ I reply.

I look at the back garden, at the soaring pohutukawa tree that will burst into flames of red at Christmas time, and if I close my eyes I can almost pretend Rob is just out there on the wooden deck, smoking a cigarette and sitting in the sun.

Prue hands me my tea with a smile, and I look at this woman who is full of so much strength and grace she doesn’t even realise it. We are about to embark on our first trip without Rob, to Rotorua further south, and, although he isn’t here and I miss holding his hand, there is nothing sad about this.

That I am here, that his mother is one of my dearest friends, and that I feel as if this is my home, is more than I could have asked for. Despite the terrible events of the last year, we have held on to our love for Rob, and turned it into love for each other, and at times that outshines all of our darkest moments.