- well not quite, she was 45 and 3/4, I'm 45 today. And I'm having a bit of a wobble.
The first thing is how long it's taken me to actually think about her. I was so lost in my own grief, and I guess was so young when she died, that all I thought about was me. But what can it have been like for her, in her early 40s, a single parent with two teenage children, and no family to speak of, to know she had terminal cancer? How the fuck did she cope? We moved to England after my parents split, when I was 10, to be near her mother - and then her mother died two months before we were due to move. We moved anyway - she got a job, made a lovely home for us, and then a few years later got cancer.
What she did have was friends, amazing friends, who despite not all knowing each other, still worked out a rota between them and took it in turns to abandon their own families, travel across the country or from Ireland and move in with us a week at a time. She must have been a hell of a woman to have friends like that - I'm still in touch with some of them.
And in the last few months, when she was in hospital, it was just my brother and I - he was 18, and running the house, paying the bills, cooking our supper and making sure I did my homework. It must have been so awful for her, knowing all this was going on. I was too busy thinking about how awful it was for us.
So there's that - and also this weird feeling that I never thought I'd make it to 45. Part of me never thought I'd outlive her. I can't really say anymore that I miss her as much as I miss having a mother - but the strength of character she must have had just takes me aback.
But the DCs and DH are great, and I have a Mad Men box set and a necklace and new kitchen scales and some books. They don't know the significance of the age, and I won't tell them - I just needed to get this all down somewhere.