The morning after my mother died, I didn't know what to do with myself. I made tea I didn't drink. I sat in every room of the house and left each one. I called no one.

At eleven o'clock there was a knock at the door. It was Sarah. She had driven four hours from Bristol. She hadn't called first. She hadn't texted to ask if I wanted company. She just appeared on my doorstep with a bag of groceries and a look on her face that said: I know. I'm here.

We sat there for most of the day. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn't talk for an hour at a stretch. She didn't try to fill the silence. She didn't check her phone. She was just there — completely, quietly, entirely there.

At five o'clock she drove the four hours home. She had work the next morning.

I have thought about that day many times since. About what it means to truly show up for someone. Not with the right words, not with advice, not with a carefully chosen card. Just with yourself. Your actual physical presence in the room, saying without saying: you are not alone in this.

That is what friendship really is. Not the easy days. The four-hour drives.