It is my mum's death-day today.
I remember a really hard day on about the fifth anniversary when Dad had started dating his now-wife and he forgot about it. He had previously taken us to put flowers on her grave every December 14th. I had to go by myself. That made me feel very alone and was a good little illustration of the tensions between old and new.
My mum was a very good woman. She understood my shyness (though she wasn't in the least bit shy herself - she used to shock my brother and I with how brazenly she would strike up conversations with strangers). And she bought me poetry books by British authors when I was little. And she would always make some bits of coconut slice with just chocolate icing (no coconut on top) just for me, 'cause mums know just how you like things. When I was learning to read she wrote a book for me, with pop-up pictures and clues about our house and I had to read it and then go on a treasure hunt until I found my pocket money with the final clue. And I got star stickers for practising the spelling words she'd given me. She was an English teacher too.
Dads are good in their own way, but they're not mums.
