The moment my daughter died, I was holding her hand. I felt her slip away. I felt something in me shatter. For five and a half years I watched bowel cancer steal pieces of her life, her body, her future. She was only 40. Her children were only teenagers. That night, I realised love can be both a miracle and a mon…

I remember the weight of Deborah’s hand in mine, growing lighter as her breathing slowed, each exhale a goodbye to the life she had fought so fiercely to keep. In that small, quiet room, the machines hummed, but her battle was finally over. I whispered that it was all right to let go, even though every part of me wanted to scream for her to stay.

Now, I watch Hugo and Eloise navigate a world that no longer has their mother in it, and I see Deborah in every brave smile they force, every tear they try to hide. I tell them their mum did not lose; she endured. She turned pain into purpose, fear into fierce love. I brought her into this world and held her as she left it, and in that circle of life and loss, I found a different kind of strength: to keep her story alive.