My Mum would’ve loved Doctor Foster. She would’ve hated Stacey on Bake Off. She’d be excited to meet Ben and would’ve told me as soon as his back was turned that, ‘he’s a bit of you, isn’t he?’
She would’ve loved that I did a stand up show. She’d be calling me to find out how filming with the BBC goes. She would have looked at my new dyed hair and gone, ‘Weren’t you ginger enough already?’
She would be on the other end of the phone, crying over the children I teach when they have a light bulb moment. She’d be the best person to discuss Louis Theroux’s new documentaries with. She’d win £100 at bingo and lend it to me when my card gets stolen for the 4th time.
She would’ve told all of her bingo friends about my award nominations. She would be excited to see pictures of my classroom when I set it up for the year. She would’ve been ecstatic when hearing about my trip to Paris.
But the fact of the matter is, she’s not here to do any of that.
And I really fucking miss her.
See, for some of you, your Mum is your person. The one who is always just there. Argument with boyf? Call her up. Got made redundant? She’d tell you, ‘fuck ’em!’
My Mum was my person.
Lately, I’ve been dreaming about her a lot.
In those dreams, we have little life catch up chats. I tell her about work, the blog and all about Ben. She doesn’t really speak. She stands there and listens. And smiles. And before she says anything, I wake up.
The hardest part of this, is lately I’ve been waking up and my first thought has been, ‘Call Mum and tell her about x’ – and then I realise.
I realise my person is no longer here to be my person.
And lately, that’s been really fucking hard.
As more and more exciting things are happening for me, the more and more I wish she was here to tell.
It kills me that she will never meet Ben and vice versa. She would’ve loved how he looks at me and after me and he would’ve loved her wicked sense of humour and warmth.
She would’ve been proud of me for bagging him and proud of me for all I’ve achieved since she’s been gone.
But she’s not. And the next stage of grief rolls in.
She’s not here anymore. I fucking wish more than anything that she was.
The next stage of grief is the one where it’s not fresh any more. Your mother hasn’t JUST died. You’re not the gal who lost her Mum recently. It’s not your ‘thing’ any more.
But the hole remains. Whilst you adapt and the sadness changes shape and size. It still remains.
She’s not here to hold. She’s not here to love. She’s not here to be proud of me. She’s not here to look after me. She’s not here to listen to me. She’s not here to meet him. She’s not here to give her amazing advice. She’s not here to watch Black Mirror with. She’s not here to cook her roast dinners. She’s not here to pronounce ‘quesadillas’, ‘squeeders.’ She’s not here to go to bingo with. She’s not here to tell me my hair looks nice. She’s not here to tell me not to be a knob to Ben as he’s definitely a keeper.
Photos by Kaye.