After my first son was born my Mum went all bent out of shape. She demanded that I stay with her and not move with my husband and son to Ireland.

I moved.

And we had no contact for nearly two years. Until I fell pregnant with second son.

Then the voices began. Go home, they said. Go home. There is someone who you’ll never see again.

I listened and obeyed thinking that I’d never see Nan, Anne, Mum’s Mum again. I took baby boy and growing baby.

Mum and I had a great time. She ADORED her grandson and was very excited about another grandchild.

She died 2 months later.

After her funeral I did not see/talk to my Dad for well over a decade. We finally met again at youngest brother’s wedding.

I saw him twice in the next 2 years. Last time was when he was in hospital, dying.

When my brothers and I cleared Dad’s flat afterwards… I found every single birthday/Christmas card that I’d sent him in all those barren years. He’d saved everything from ME.

There’s a thin line between love and hate.

I adore my totally fecked up and discombobulated parentals.

I’ll NEVER have any other Mum and Dad .

And they will NEVER have another totally fecked up and discombobulated me :o)