A young man and his mother came to see me.
On the surface they seemed a normal mother and son.
The son, who I will call S, is bright, intelligent, probably on the Asperger's spectrum, full of enthusiasm for projects and plans.
S is dying.
S has a nasty insidious, incurable, aggressive form of cancer.
Mother is a carer. She is angry, she doesn't understand the way S is coping. He has his own way.
I sat there and saw a young man, only a little older than my own son. Full of promise and hope for a fantastic life, a life that would be cut short.
I found it difficult to cope.