I lost my mum on 21st December 1995. I was 8-years-old, and my sister was 5. I hate that term, lost. I didn’t lose her. She was ripped from my life after a battle with ovarian cancer. Hysterectomy. Chemotherapy. Hospice. She fought with humour, grace, and style. No NHS wig for her, she rocked a patterned head scarf and exotic earrings and was amazing. After 20 years of being motherless, I’d grown used to it. I will never say that time heals, but birthdays passed and anniversaries were remembered – the dates etched into my memory forever more.  Mother’s day usually left me sobbing in a cold, windy cemetery as I left yellow roses at her grave. The day I got my exam results; passing my driving test; the dance shows; the day I landed a promotion.  All silently marked in my mind by the absence of the most beautiful woman with the warmest smile and the hope she would be proud of what I had achieved. I had never planned to become a mother. …