In 4 days your youngest child will turn 26. It will be the fifteenth birthday of his that you haven’t been there for. Today marks 15 years since you phoned me before the cinema and told me you felt unwell. You refused to let anyone call the on-call Doctor, you didn’t want a fuss. Fifteen years since you and I last spoke, fifteen years since you last told me you love me.
Fifteen years ago tomorrow, I sleepily picked up my phone to a call that would rock the very foundation of life as I knew it. I lost so much more than a mother that day… I lost someone who was becoming my closest friend as well as my closest ally.
It took a long time to stop being angry with you for leaving. It took an even longer time to stop being angry at myself. Each day is a new step, and Mum, I’m getting there. I’ve come so far, especially in the past two years. I hope that you can see that and I make you proud. I hope you’re telling Grandad how you are proud of my accomplishments like you told SJ when I was at uni and she would share a cuppa with you.
We may have fought a lot, you may have given me more responsibility than I should have had at a young age (through no fault of your own), you should have left him and taken us with you long before he did the most heinous thing he did, but despite those things, you proved time and time again that you loved me. You weren’t massive on hugs or saying how you felt, but you made sure we knew. You protected me from nightmares, took your first solo flight to come to my side in hospital, taught me to cook, gave me a love of period drama, stayed up with me to watch Bad Girls on ITV even though it was past your bedtime (I met Simone by the way, Mum, and she was lovely and gracious), and I know from recent years, you are still making sure I’m safe and have the support I need.
I miss you, every single day, and I love you more each moment that passes.