You will never read this.
So I guess this is a fruitless exercise. What is the point?
Maybe I don't know. Maybe after ten years of saying very little about how I feel I just needed an outlet to say:
It is so unbelievably shit that you died.
Being a mum is really bloody tough.
I need you now.
I long for phone calls and shopping trips and catch-up coffees. Sometimes when I see other mums and daughters out together I feel like somebody is twisting my stomach. I look away quickly, but I have seen it. It hits me. And I miss what I will never have.
I miss what you will never have. You will never know that you are a grandmother.
"Nanny Debbie" we call you, after Henry pointed to the picture I keep of you on my bedside table and asked 'who's that?' He was delighted with the answer.
We play the 'who's at the door?' game when visitors come round. Last week, when asked 'who's at the door?' Henry replied (with a smile) "It's Nanny Debbie!"
I love him for wanting you to be at the door. But at the same time my heart broke.
Some day soon I will have to explain why you will never pop in for a cup of tea, or pick him up to take him swimming. And why when we say we are 'going to Nanny Debbie's beach' it will be an outing to the beautiful spot we scattered your ashes.
It is all so remarkably sad.
I want you to know that I will think about you every day for the rest of my life. And I know now. How you must have felt knowing you had no control over leaving us to grow up without you.
Because now I am the Mum.
And though I find it a struggle I will do a fabulous job at bringing him up. That's a promise.
After all, I learned from the best.
The Unmumsy Mum