So I'd been send up into the loft to locate a specific box. Neither me, nor my lovely wife know what the box looks like, though. There must be hundreds of boxes in the loft, so I spent a good while up there, rooting and tooting to see if I could find the right one.
Whilst having a root, and a toot, I found a briefcase, full of my dad's old things. Driving licence, various letters, receipts and guarantees, that sort of thing. In it was a framed photograph of my mum. She looked lovely. SO happy, and radiant. Behind it was her death certificate. It is so hard trying to find the words to describe how that made me feel. I have never seen her death certificate before, I didn't even know it was in our loft. Furthermore, I didn't know she died at the same hospital Luke was born at.
Why didn't i know? Because I was 13 when she died. Just 13. My dad wasn't the type of man to sit down and open his heart and tell you how he was feeling. So much so that I don't remember him raising his voice to me or Emma at all. The look was enough to let you know you'd done wrong.
Mum would have been 62 on the 2nd May this year. She died in 1987 when she was just 40. My lovely wife has just turned 35, which puts my mums death into so much perspective from the point of view of my dad. I simply can't imagine losing my wife to something as despicable as cancer in 5 years. Or ever, to be honest, but that is the reality of what happened to mum.
I'm not sure my mums family ever really liked my dad. Mum was their angel, their baby, and the rough and ready lad from Bootle swept her off her feet and took her away (in their eyes). They can say and think what they like about him because I know how much he loved her. It's clear for me to see, from looking through his briefcase. I also found his wallet and in it was a photo of Emma in her school uniform.
He may never have spoken about his feelings, but I know he had them.
