The most wonderful time of the year

This festive period was tough. I think that as last year, our first Christmas without her, was so different to what we were used to thanks to Covid, it wasn’t so glaring that she wasn’t there.

This year however, with a pretty regular Christmas, her absence was more obvious than ever. It was like Christmas without Santa, and in some ways it was. My mum was Mrs Claus. She was like a child. She came into her own as soon as we began our Advent calendars. Christmas was her favourite time of the year. The house was always full. Full of food, full of decorations, full of presents, full of people, full of laughter and flowing with love.

My Mum made Christmas, and I found myself missing her more and more as the festive period went on. My family dynamic has changed so much since she died, and I long for the normality of times gone by. I would give anything to see her looking confused as we unwrapped our presents, as she’d accidentally given my sister and I a present meant for each other, or as she realised she’d forgotten about a gift.

All I wanted was to spend hours at the dining table eating the exquisite meal my Step Dad cooked, and loosing the will to live by the second hour. I wanted her to be making a fuss over my husband. I wanted her in the kitchen at the end of the day nursing a Bailey’s, with her shoes kicked off and chatting away to anyone who walked past. I can see the dining room full, with more people in than is comfortable, each with glasses and plates overfilled.

I’ve spent so much time in these last few weeks wishing things could go back, and wishing I had appreciated what we had when it was here. I know she knew we loved her, I don’t doubt that one second, but I wonder - did she have any idea how important she was? What she meant to us all? How happy she made us? How she kept us all together? Just how much we need her?

I hope so, I really fucking do.