Eamon, my 46-year-old husband had a series of premonitions of his death. He had always believed he would die young. He predicted he would not survive the Millennium and reminded me time and again that the new Millennium technically began in 2001, not 2000.

 

As September arrived, his anxiety was clearly growing. He spent a family gathering discussing the possibility of another terrorist attack on the World Trade Centre (the North Tower had been bombed in 1993) and debating escape routes with his brother. Two days later, Eamon displayed more signs of unease.

 

'Bonnie,' he announced, 'you'd better start applying more discipline to the children because when I'm gone you're going to have a hard time.'

 

'But you're the disciplinarian,' I answered. 'Yes,' he replied, 'but I'm not going to be here that long . . . You'll find out.'

 

On the morning of September 11, 2001, Eamon had a sudden attack of vertigo as he prepared to go to work to the WTC. Such attacks weren't unprecedented, but Eamon hadn't had one for more than a year.

 

I wanted him to stay home, but characteristically he wouldn't. A determined and dutiful man, he pressed on, pausing only to say 'see you later' before heading out to begin the two-hour dawn commute he so hated from our home in Connecticut to downtown New York.

 

Eamon worked for Cantor Fitzgerald, the financial services conglomerate, on Floor 105 of the North Tower of the World Trade Centre. Neither I nor our four adored and adoring children would ever see him again.

 

Later, I experienced something unexpected, when a New York City police officer arrived at our front door and handed me a velvet box. In it was Eamon's wedding ring. It's a fragile puzzle ring made of four interlocking gold bands. To this day, I can't understand how it could possibly have survived, let alone been found in the mountain of still-burning rubble at Ground Zero. To me, having this ring back was a miracle and I viewed it as a sign from my husband - a message that everything would be OK.