There’ll be exhaustion, love tinged with occasional rage, even moments of black humour. But my mum would want me to tell you: don’t be afraid
My mother’s house looks exactly as she left it.
Two novels sit by the armchair, their pages neatly marked for book group. Pinned to the noticeboard is a shopping list in only slightly shaky writing, with “FRUIT!” in urgent capitals, and “make soup” underlined. The sole outward signs of something missing are her cats twining needily around me – loneliness having finally overcome their innate horror of visitors – and the one thing I can’t bear to look at, which is the empty hospital bed marooned bleakly in the sitting room. Delivered by social services when it was deemed she could no longer manage stairs, it is now stripped bare, awaiting collection. Another family will be needing it.
Have a baby and the world falls over itself to offer advice. But losing a parent remains a private, bewildering, lonely affair
Gaby Hinsliff is a Guardian columnist
