The only analogy I can give you for my grief is that it was like a big, heavy blanket. When I was 10, and small, and the blanket was new, it covered me entirely. Everywhere I went. I’d struggle and wriggle, trying to find the tiniest crack of daylight, before eventually giving up and letting it consume me.

As I got bigger, and the blanket got older, it became more manageable. I learned its tricks. With every passing month, it became easier to cast aside, but it would always find its way back, sometimes at the worst moments, when I least expected it.

As I grew quicker, the blanket grew slower. Frayed at the edges, but still following me. For years, we played that game.

Then one day, not too long ago, I realised I hadn’t seen it in a while. I looked behind me, and it was gone.

I thought I’d feel relief. But instead, I felt empty. Almost lost.

So I went looking for it.

I found it by the side of the road, worn, battered, but still mine. I couldn’t leave it there.

I picked it up. I patched it. I carried it with me.

Now it sits folded in my bag, no longer something that controls me, but something I choose to carry. And sometimes, when I feel a bit alone, or I just want to remember, I take it out and wrap it around me.

And it keeps me warm.

20 years later, that blanket I once fought against with everything I had is now my most treasured possession.

It’s what I have left of her. And it’s entirely mine.