It was the worst day of my life. I was alone with my mum in a bright, top-floor hospital room overlooking the Houses of Parliament in London. I was in my late twenties, and a surgeon had just done the rounds and told us that there was nothing else they could do about the progression of my mum’s stage 4 cancer.
“Mum,” I sobbed. “I just want you to meet my children.” Those were the first words that came out of my mouth as I flung my arms around her as she lay in her hospital bed. It was primal.
