MY kitchen calendar says it’s your wedding anniversary in a little while, so I thought I’d get a few things off my tiny chest to celebrate.
Granny always said if I didn’t eat more I’d end up with boobs like two fried eggs. And she was right. Which is the annoying thing about you oldies, isn’t it? You always are.
You were right when you said I had to be back by midnight. There is nothing to be gained from staying out late. Only trouble. Or herpes.
I dread the day my girls want to go out alone and I am the one sat listening for the key in the door.
You were also right about my first marriage. You knew it would be a disaster but you didn’t say a word. You still haven’t. You let me make my own mistakes. And let’s face it, there have been a few.
I have to give my kids this same freedom. They don’t need to hold my hand like they used to. I reach down and there is no soft little paw reaching up to reassure me I am needed. I have to learn to set them free and let them fall.
And when they do, I want to be there to put them back together again – like you did. To make them a roast dinner and give them a cake in an orange Tupperware container.
You stayed at home when we were little, to have tea on the table for five o’clock and make our sandwiches for school . . . even if they were egg.
I didn’t appreciate it then. But I see you now, quietly picking up after us, as I yell angrily up the stairs at mine to “MAKE YOUR BEDS AND FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE PICK YOUR PANTS UP OFF THE FLOOR”.
You cooked, cleaned and sorted for Dad too, while he dedicated all his life to the same company, working through the night to keep our days worry-free. And they were. Until you got cancer.
I’ve never told you, Dad, but I heard you that night when you came back to Granny’s from the hospital after Mum’s cancer had spread. I heard you howling, struck down by your hurting heart.
When it all went quiet and I came down, you washed your face and pretended you were OK. You said you were fine. You said everything would be fine.
And you were right again, Dad, because Mum got better. I remember the lady from the hospital who went upstairs with you, Mum, to take out the big, scary staples that ran from your collarbone to your ribs.
Staples made by a cruel giant, clever enough to save but cold enough to staple my mum back together like a joint of meat.
And you came back downstairs from your room and told me it didn’t hurt one bit. Not one bit. And gave me a cake to prove it.
Just so you know, Mum and Dad, I know it hurt. I know you cried. And I know you’ve been brave all your 44 years together to give your children a chance to be happy.
I am a nightmare daughter. I will never be married 44 years. Even if you work on a cumulative basis. But the great thing about having two children is you can always redeem yourself with the other one.
Know this. You may always be right. But when life does hurt and you are forced to stop being brave, I’ll be there to take over.
And I will dry my tears and tell your grandchildren I’m OK.
Even when I’m not.
I love you,
Me x
Original Source: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/suncolumnists/katiehopkins/6645649/...
