Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills Page A

were thirteen years old: one for me and a different letter for Declan.
    Letter in hand, I sat down on the bed.
     
    Dear Dax,
    This letter is goodbye, but please know I’m writing it with smiles not tears. I’m rejoicing because someday, when the time is right, you will read this, and there will be a connection, a gossamer thread that binds us together—you on earth and me in heaven. Perhaps a star will twinkle extra bright or a comet will race across the sky. Perhaps a dragonfly will land on your shoulder or a rainbow will be in your backyard. It’s me, becoming part of our infinite universe as I watch you grow.
    I’m dying with cancer. There’s a slight chance I might live a few months longer with medication but it would make me very sick and tired. I don’t want to waste away in front of you. I want you to remember me as the fun mum, and with the time I have left, I want to spend every second with you playing Monopoly, making bangers and mash, singing “Hey, Jude” and “Here Comes the Sun.”
    Am I scared as the hour of my death closes in? Yes. My heart breaks to know I won’t be here to carry you through the pain of losing me, the tumult of your upcoming teenage years, see you fall in and out of love, or experience the feeling of holding your own children.
    But what I can leave you with is advice. You are young now, but someday I hope it gives you comfort to know that I too have been where you are, and I was far from perfect.
    I got pregnant with you unexpectedly and married a man I’d fallen madly in love with but barely knew. You were both born, and soon he realized he’d never loved me. He wanted to go back to his home in the United States. It was not his fault. Please know this. Have compassion for him even though you barely know him. You can’t make someone love you and you can’t make them stay with you. But look at the blessings I received. YOU. If I could go back and change a thing about meeting your father and what happened, I wouldn’t, knowing you and Declan were waiting for me at the end.
    I recall the moment you first saw the beach on holiday in Italy. You took my hand and we walked out as far as we could. You played for hours, and when the sun finally set on the horizon, you reached for my hand. “It’s like a painting, Mum,” you whispered, and I knew then your heart was special. You saw that we are but particles of dust on this earth and there are things bigger than us.
    As a baby, you rarely cried and I often worried why, but as you grew into a headstrong yet kind lad, I realized God had sent me a child much like myself. Impulsive and fun. Full of joy. He knew I needed you. Your mischievous nature and giggles get me through my weepy days—even though you may not realize it.
    “Your wings already exist . . . all you have to do is soar.”
    My little darling, I didn’t write that quote, but I’ve said it to you since you were in my tummy. It’s our mantra, and every time you say it back to me, I have the assurance of knowing that, if anything, I will leave you with hope and a belief that you can be and do anything you want.
    I Love You.
    Margaret (Mum)
     
    Emotion rode me like it always did when I read her words.
    She believed I could do anything.
    I was like her , she’d said.
    I swallowed. God, I wanted to be good for her. I wanted to succeed at something.
    A glass shattered from the kitchen. What the hell?
    I bolted from the room. Spider might be all cocky smiles, but underneath I sensed the darkness he harbored. He’d never shown any signs of hurting himself, but I was a worrier, and dammit I’d gotten used to the bloke.
    Wearing a pair of Union Jack boxers and nothing else, his lean frame was bent over with a dustpan sweeping up broken glass.
    “What’s going on?”
    “Ah, so the princess has risen,” he said, standing to face me. He nudged his head toward the stove. “I made bacon. Eggs should be done in a minute.” He indicated the bowl of yellow liquid he had