Diary for My Daughter

NOTE: This story contains themes of grief and loss, and a mention of domestic violence.

TUESDAY, 10th of June.

But in life, there are no what-ifs, just what is.

My beautiful Beck. I wish you could read this. I know people aren’t supposed to read other people’s diaries, but heck, Beck, I read yours. After you left home at fifteen, disappearing through your bedroom window. At first, I couldn’t understand, and then later on, I could. You were tangled up with the wrong crowd. Wrote about things I never expected to read. Our close mum-daughter relationship had a jagged stripe that tore me apart. But eventually, we were back together, peas in a pod. Except for HIM.

Did I ever tell you how afraid I was that night for your safety? You weren’t to be found. Heart in my mouth, I called the police. Dad and I were shell-shocked. Your little sister didn’t know what was happening. But the pain of that night slowly passed, and after time, we were a family again, even though you were no longer living at home.

Today, my heart aches for you. I never could have imagined the path that life would take. Before that, I had to survive the worst thing to happen to me, and to us: the sudden death of your father. They scanned his brain and found that four-centimetre tumour. When the specialist rang to give me the news, I collapsed. So did you. Your beloved dad, whisked off in a flight to a hospital four hundred kilometres away to be assessed further. I was whisked up to the hospital the next day, and you and HIM came one night, but too late to be let into the hospital. You weren’t able to see your father again, and I know how much that seared your soul. HE held you back.

Do you know what day it was when the brain surgeon told me that they couldn’t do anything? Did I ever tell you? It was thirty-one years to the day since Dad’s mum died of bowel cancer. You were three at the time she died, not old enough to remember your English Nanny. She often talked about going ‘home’ to the U.K. But she doted on you, which was funny, because she had been so unprepared for becoming a grandmother! She loved you fiercely: bought all sorts of outfits for you and promised that when you turned sixteen, you and she would go on a world cruise together. I have a photo of you pushing her along as she took a turn riding on your little trike. It was hilarious. You two would have had a roaring time together. However, it wasn’t to be.

I have so many beautiful photos of you as a child: I treasure them. Your sister does too. We all miss you. Your adult daughters and nieces, and nephews miss you. Your little boys are too young to have lasting memories, but they will be there in the background. And my heart will never be the same. How I would love to have one more hug.

WEDNESDAY, 11th of June.

Hey there. It’s the Eleventh of June, a month before your birthday. Guess what popped up on my Facebook feed today? Your absolute favourite childhood book about a young boy and the wild monsters. Oh, the memory of it. It was still your favourite book as an adult.

A few months before your 40th, I showed you an image of a blue furry monster puppet I had made for an overseas order, someone’s book character. It was similar to the wild things in the book. “I want one!” you declared. And I had intended to create a monster with pointed teeth for you, but was tied up with several things and hadn’t gotten around to it. I wish I had. You would have been so excited. But in life, there are no what-ifs, just what is. Just the same, I can’t believe there are no more crazy phone calls between us.

You burst into our lives with drama, and exited the same way. You didn’t come with instructions: we had to learn as we went along. I had 40 years with you, and 40 years with your dad. I bet that you are still telling him off for leaving so soon! You always said he owed you one last glass of red wine together.

Your sister and I reminisce often. Our memories are large, as large as your personality. I’m grateful today for that childhood book monster memory that popped up unexpectedly. For you are always in my heart and mind. The world, and our little family, was a better place for having known and loved you.

THURSDAY, 12th of June.

Hey, Beck. Mum again. It’s winter and pretty cold here at present. But there are some beautiful days, and rays of sunshine which remind me so much of you. Your picture sits on the small table memorial table in the hallway, replenished with fresh flowers by your stepfather, the wonderful man who never got to have kids. One day, everything will be sunshine, and the night will never end. Your favourite song you used to sing as a three-year-old was the song about walking on sunshine. You and I used to belt it out as we walked along to the shops. The other one you loved was the one about having a sad face and coming over to someone’s place to “live it up.” Nobody can ever steal those precious memories from me, but the pain now is raw.

Tomorrow is looming. Friday the 13th. You know I’m not superstitious. But it’s the day when HE is finally going to be sentenced. For twenty-five years, he dragged you along. The sentencing has been cancelled and postponed so many times. Will justice ever prevail? Two years and four and a half months down the track….will it happen? I couldn’t believe it the day I had the call from your eldest.

“Mum’s been hit by a car.”Then later on…”Apparently, it was Dad’s car.” I knew there had been a lot of danger for years, but never expected this. Especially when you had planned to come and visit. Our last call, less than two weeks earlier, was full of fun and planning to get together. My beautiful girl. Her lovely kids.

Now my last memory of you is with bulging eyes, and tubes hooked up to your body and head. I was plunged into a 7-year memory of your dad. I don’t know whether you ever heard what I had to say, but the experts always say the last thing to go is the hearing. I saw that so many times when I worked in aged care, with those lovely souls we thought couldn’t hear us anymore.

Anyway, we will see what tomorrow will bring. Hopefully, a time when a violent person cannot be unleashed on the rest of the world.

FRIDAY, 13th of June.

I’m waiting to hear from the lawyers. Yesterday, I couldn’t believe it. I was on volunteer duty at our thrift shop and placed a CD into the old player on the counter. It was titled ‘Eighties 2.’ And there was that song… the one about walking on the sunshine. Another knotted heart moment.

Anyway, my darling girl, justice HAS been done today. Never long enough for the family, but better than nothing. It’s been a drawn-out saga, but there it is. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could stamp out domestic violence? It doesn’t bring you back, but if someone else could be helped……..

It was so good talking to your eldest daughter today, the first time we have talked in a while. And her cute little girl. She is such a talker, as you were at the same age! Lots of your friends (and mine) have contacted me. They all love and miss you. In front of your picture in the hall is a new, beautiful red rose in a vase. A symbol of love, of hope, of a reminder of what we shared.

On the bright side, one day we will meet again: you, me, and Dad. And all of the other loved ones we have lost. What a day that will be!

I look around and see so many lovely things that you gave me over the years, just possessions, but with deep meaning and significance. Sitting on a miniature cane chair in my workroom is the wonderful dragon figurine you made for me, my book character. Do you remember that you wanted to keep him? Didn’t want to part with him? But when Dad was in the hospital, you wrapped him up and brought him to me. I carefully packaged him, too, but he did end up with a little collateral damage. He travelled around with me for a couple of years to a few places, and even took part in my second marriage. But now he rests to keep him safe.

Along with those things is the hand-crafted drawing pad you created for me when Dad left us, the one with the beautiful cover and the inscription inside: “To my mother, who taught me to always look on the bright side of life.” Maybe now I can return to the painting I began doing of you way back in 2007, the one of you with the big angel wings. Who could have known that it would be a portent? Now it can be a tribute.

We never know what’s around the corner. Hopefully, this is a time to move forward slowly. The healing process will be long and never fully complete in this lifetime. Just know that love is stronger than death.

Until we meet again, my number one daughter.

All my love, Mum. XX