Over half my life.
I've been without you longer than I knew you.
But you are still there. I still have dreams when you are alive and it is like you have never been away. I wake up and try to get back to sleep, pick up where I left off. But you've gone again.
I don't cry as often as I use to. But I still remember. I still get in touch with my sisters without fail every 18 of Feb. I don't say why, I don't need to say why. We tell each other we love each other and we carry on.
Carrying on is what we have always done. Like going back to school and some semblance of normality just days after you died.
I felt guilty about that, but didn't know what else to do.
I wish you were here. That I could talk to you about what is going on. Us, your three daughters, conceived relatively shortly after your marriage are a pretty strong indication that you didn't struggle with infertility.
But that is one of the things about infertility, it is isn't hereditary. Obviously.
And just because you didn't have this particular problem doesn't mean you couldn't help. I would love to sit with you, a cup of tea and a Kit-Kat and just talk. And you of all people, a teetotal, fit, non-smoking mother of three teenage girls, you who died of cancer in your early forties, you would understand how unfair life can be.
But as you told me on numerous occasions, "Life isn't fair."
That and "Put your brain in gear before engaging you mouth." Not that I ever listened to that.