Emma, I get it (Twenty years after Mum died, I still don’t know how to mark the day, 22 October). It has been 22 years since my mother died. Every year is different; I am still darning the jumper, fully aware that it can never be the same again. This year, I am reading your article lying on a beach in Sri Lanka. This morning I woke up sobbing, releasing built-up emotions held deep within for far too long.
Usually I just think about her, the way she brought us up, a widow, stoically alone, how she suffered, and how I watched her take her final breaths that October morning after I placed three gentle kisses on her right cheek.
