We’re not a family that finds communication easy. When I was a child, if I became upset, you’d tell me not to cry, because it upset you so much. Even now, you’re still putting on the bravest of faces. Only once, the last time you were in hospital, did you let your guard drop. The tears came, and you said you’d tried so hard to be brave – I hugged you and wanted to say that it was OK to cry, and to let the tears come – but at that moment we were interrupted by the world’s most insensitive nurse, ruining what was obviously a special, private moment.

By the time the nurse had left, you had composed yourself again, and the moment was lost. I really regret that.

I want to say thank you – for being my mum. For the years of dinners, even though you never really liked cooking. For always being interested in what I did. For coming to my concerts. For slipping all those tenners into my hands when Dad wasn’t looking. For your sunny nature. For never swearing or being vulgar or cruel or unkind. For loving crosswords and songbirds and horses and cats and dogs, and red wine and swimming and prawns and hot sunny weather and gardening.

I want to say sorry. Sorry for every dirty look I ever gave you when I was an ungrateful or embarrassed adolescent (well into my 20s), still young enough and daft enough to take you for granted. Sorry for every worry you suffered on my behalf.

You battled your illness for a long time. Now you have reached a different place. A place where you are making the most of every day. Where you have accepted what is happening. And it is a surprisingly sweet place. Quite often, we have a good day. You’re confined to bed, but still totally with it, and not in pain; not yet. Watching something wonderful on the telly while eating something delicious can be very enjoyable. Glastonbury and trifle, Wimbledon and strawberries, opera and roast dinner. I savour every moment.

You’re only 73, so when I come across people with mums who are 95, I’m jealous. Why can’t that be you and me?

There was a point where I tried to detach myself from you, from what was going on. I tried to harden my heart. But now I think (and fear?) I love you more than ever. There is a lot of love in the house. You’re closer to my father than I think you’ve ever been. He’s having to look after you like you’ve always looked after him. We all are. We want to. It is the least we can do after everything you’ve done for us.

You’re not perfect but you’re the only mum I’ll ever have, and I dread the day that I lose you. I cannot bear to think of you in physical pain. Somehow, I hope you avoid that.

You’re only 73, so when I come across people with mums who are 95, I’m jealous. Why can’t that be you and me? But then there are people who lost their mum when they were five or 10 or 20. And I realise that I have been lucky to have you until I’m 45. At least we had each other this long.

I also feel glad we’ve had this time to try to get ready to lose each other. I can’t imagine the world without your love in it. I don’t want you to go. But I am going to have to let you go. I will try to be as brave as I can be, and at your side. I love you. When you are gone, I will always miss you.

Your son, Mike

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