Letter to my mum. I miss you.

Dear Mum,

Just because it's been 20 years since you've been gone, it doesn't mean that I don't still miss you every day. There are times when that day we lost you seems like yesterday, and many others where I still think, Oh I need to tell mum something...

I know somewhere somehow you've found a way to observe our lives, and there must have been dozens of times where you were out there somewhere yelling at me for my stupidity or shaking your head in disbelief at my complete and utter refusal to live like an adult. During my 20s I racked up way more than my fair share of bad choices, and I felt you cringing right alongside me through each and every one.

However, there've been many times when I've talked to you about my worries at night, and I wake up in the morning feeling like all is right with the world, and I know somehow you've found a way to give me peace of mind.

When I was younger I didn't see that we had any similarities at all. I resembled dad, and with your dark hair and eyes, my blonde, green eyed looks seemed a million miles away. Our personalities seemed vastly different too and I know I frustrated you sometimes as I was so shy and uncertain and occasionally anti-social, whereas you were always vibrant, outgoing and confident and attracted friends like honey to a bee.

During my teen years we were oceans apart - you just wanted me to be normal and happy and popular like my sister and when my teenage angst and natural aptitude for rebelliousness led me down a different path, I know you worried for me immensely. I still remember your face when I walked downstairs ready for a night out, and you said to me 'why do you always have to wear so much black?'. Of course me being me, the following week I deliberately made my way downstairs wearing a hot pink 60s shift with tie dyed stockings and said 'bright enough for you?'. Your face was an absolute picture. At the time I thought it was hilarious but now that I'm the adult, I understand that you were just worried for me and the choices I was making.

The funny thing is though, and you probably appreciate this now, is that the values and standards you and dad had instilled in us since birth were so baked in that whilst we did get up to our fair share of hijinks, and my friends and I may have looked like the original wild children, ultimately on the inside we were pretty damned conservative too. I understand now that you were afraid for me because to you my world was a complete unknown. I hope you understand it was completely necessary for me to be able to express myself and my individuality which I'd suppressed for so long just so I could figure out who I really was, both on the inside and the outside. At the time I felt you just didn't get me, and maybe you didn't, but I never doubted for a second that you simply wanted me to be happy. It's just that my way of making me happy was so completely different to yours!

My biggest regret at losing you so young was that I only knew you as 'mum', not as 'Robyn'. Teenagers are angsty enough and me probably more than the norm, so there was a divide between us over the last few years as my choices and passive-aggressive, selfish teenage behaviour meant we butted heads...a lot. I'm sorry we never got a chance to connect as adults, because I think we would have been friends.

My friends LOVED you! They thought you were the most awesome, coolest mum and often used you as a sounding board for their issues. There were so many times when I'd find you talking to my friends about really personal things that at the time embarrassed me like hell, but to them it was amazing because they could talk to you about things they could never speak to their own mums about. I was mortified as a teenager but looking back I am so proud that it was my mum who everyone felt they could turn to about anything and everything. You were completely non-judgemental and made them feel safe and appreciated. I can only hope that Elijah's mates feel they have the same confidant in me as he gets older that my friends had in you.

It's funny that I felt that we had so little in common, as over the years I have learned that we have so many similarities that it's ridiculous. Shortly before giving birth to Elijah, your first grandson, I cut my long hair into a bob and walked into the house to find dad looking at me like I was a ghost...he later related that you had worn your hair like that when you were pregnant with me, and for a split second he thought it was YOU walking into the house. I've now seen photos and can't believe I ever thought I didn't take after you! I've also from time to time bumped into people who knew you and many have commented that as I've grown I've come to look more like you than ever. It makes me proud to hear them say that.

You had such an effect on everyone you met and left a lasting legacy. You know a few years back that I was talking to a woman on the phone through my work and she asked me if my mother's name was Robyn. She told me that she was now married to an old boyfriend of yours who despite the fact that he married her ten years after you passed away, he had talked of you often and never forgot you. The funny part was, I saw a picture of this woman and she was a dead ringer for you, down to holding the same job as you had! You'll be pleased to know that she seemed lovely as I know all you wanted for him was happiness.

You were the ultimate survivor, when life dealt you a blow you simply picked yourself up, dusted yourself off and kept on going. Over your lifetime you had to deal with some very tough situations, including cancer when I was so little, which sadly and eventually claimed your life. I like to think that you made some kind of deal that allowed you to see us grow into teenagers before you let yourself be taken from us. You saw heartbreak and sadness and yet people would have never described you as anything but a sparkling, happy personality who just dealt with life as it came and didn't have a lot of regard for wallowing. I admire you so much for that and like to think that maybe a little bit of that has rubbed off on me. People often describe me as a survivor, but I see now that when you're a mum falling down is simply a luxury that you cannot afford.

Perhaps it's being a mum myself and dealing with my own set of difficult circumstances that I've come to appreciate just how much you did to protect and shelter us on days where you probably just wanted to fall apart yourself.

I believe it was your hand behind my nephew being born on the anniversary of your death, and also my closest and oldest friend Cathy's son born on your birthday. It was your way of telling us to stop wallowing and start finding reasons to celebrate those difficult days. That's so you.

I regret that you never got the chance to meet Elijah. I know you would be incredibly proud of the beautiful, kind hearted yet confident and strong little human being he is turning out to be. All of the life lessons you and dad taught us are being passed onto your grandchild and I feel proud to have had such amazing role models such as you and dad to teach me how to be a great parent myself. When I look at my independent, quirky yet wise-beyond-his-years son who just OWNS who he is already at the tender age of 11, I feel so proud not just of myself but you and dad as well. I couldn't possibly have ever been the parent I am without you showing me the way with my own upbringing.

I miss you every day. We recently unpacked our photos and looking at my favourite picture of you brought a nostalgic tear to my eye. I show your photos to Elijah often and I tell him how proud you would have been of him because I know the truth in that statement. I also think you'd be kind of proud of me too, not to mention relieved that I actually did turn out to be a reasonably decent citizen of the world. I never lost my quirks or sense of whimsy though mum, in fact I'm sitting here typing this wearing leopard print earmuffs and not caring a whit what people think of that! I'd still be wearing the hot pink dress too if I could possibly fit into it, as much as this information might pain you.

I'd like to think we'd share a glass of champagne and laugh about it today if we could.

Missing you every day, mum.

xx