Mothers’ Day

Not much of a day really. Tinged with extreme sadness and regret.

Dear Mummy, some may love you and some don’t but the one who loves you is at school. I love you so so so so so so so so so so so so much. Love Clea

That is the last Mothers’ Day card I was given from my daughter. I keep it in the drawer beside my bed along with all her other little keepsakes and notes telling me how much she loves me.

Usually, I take flowers to her grave on Mothers’ Day but this year, we are in Melbourne, so I took flowers on Thursday and sprinkled glittering love hearts on the grass where she lies beneath. It was better on a Thursday, not so many people. There are always too many people at the cemetery on Mothers’ Day.

Losing a child gives you a different perspective on what a mother is or what a mother should be. Being unable to save your child makes you wonder what type of a mother you are.

I know I have my sons and yes, they love their mother and their mother loves them. But they are not my daughter and they can not be my daughter. They are my sons. They tell me how much they love me and how beautiful I am (even more beautiful than that princess on television – the Duchess of Cambridge, I think he meant!).

I will never hear Clea tell me she loves me so much – no, I love you, no, I love you we would argue. I argue in my head as I stand above her grave.

Please do not wish me a happy Mothers’ Day. I hate Mothers’ Day.