Page 1 of The Love of Our Lives
PROLOGUE
Dear Recipient,
It’s with great sadness, and some hope, that I’m writing you this letter. One I never thought I would have to write. One no mother should ever have to write.
My daughter, my life – my heart – died unexpectedly almost a year ago now, on a bright summer’s day in July. She was just thirty years old, at the start of what should have been a long and beautiful life.
This past year has been worse than anything I could have imagined, and we are still trying to find a way forward without her. Because it is unfathomable that she’s not alive; that she isn’t somewhere in this world.
She was such a dreamer, my Stella. So full of ideas and colour, but very smart and determined too. She excelled at everything she did – her studies, sport and music – even as a child. And she was infinitely kind. I remember when she was about twelve, and found a stray kitten. She cared for it around school hours – until we made her give it up, that is. She called it Polly, because she used to call everything Polly when she was younger. I think she would have loved a little sister to look out for – to be close with – and I’m sorry we never gave her that.
She had many friends, though. Everyone who knew her loved her, because she had that kind of magnetic effect on others. She loved being around people, socialising,and parties too, but I’m afraid she didn’t get to go to many. I regret restricting her; I regret so many things. I know I’m rambling on now, but I’ve written a hundred versions of this letter and I’m not sure I can do it again. There is an endless amount I want to say about her, but each time I bring pen to paper, it’s an awful reminder that she is no longer here.
I do have something to ask of you though, so if you can, please read on.
After school she went on to study at the best university, attained a placement at a prominent firm thereafter, and rose quickly to the top. She did everything we hoped she would do, and more.
And then, something changed in her. Something I don’t yet understand. Because the truth is, I hadn’t seen her for six months before she died. We had an argument about some decisions she’d made, then she moved up north, to this little flat above a bakery of all places, and when I went to see her – convince her to come back – we had another argument. I was too stubborn to hear her out, and said some things I shouldn’t have. For that I will be eternally sorry.
I still dream of her though, every single night. Then I’ll wake up and realise once again she’s not here, and never will be, my darling girl.
The reason I lived.
I just wish I knew more about her life before she went. I wish I knew what she was doing, and who she was with. I wish I could connect those final missing pieces of my only child’s life. But more than anything, I wish I couldhold my Stella one more time and tell her I love her – tell her how she was my whole world, and always will be.
There have been so many dark days since the moment I found out she’d died, so many times when I felt there was no point in going on; and there will be more to come, I’m sure.
It’s all I deserve really, after what I did.
But then I realised something recently, something that gave me some shred of hope again – maybe she is still alive in the organs she wanted to donate, in the lives that she saved.
And most particularly in her heart, the heart that you now carry. Because she had such a big one, my Stella – the biggest you can possibly imagine. And so, I want to tell you about her. I want you to know how special her heart is, so that you can keep her alive in you too.
Would you do that for me?
Would you keep her alive for me?
CHAPTER ONE
Late morning light shines through the canopy of leaves above, dappling the pebbled pathway ahead of me. It should be beautiful, yet all I can think about is that letter in my pocket again.
Like a blow to the heart.
‘You OK?’ Jess says beside me as we walk along. I glance at her dark blonde hair and sunglasses, three yellow balloons bobbing up from her hand for today’s celebrations.
‘I’m doing absolutely fine,’ I say cheerfully, even as I recall the moment the post came a week ago.
But there’s no need to talk about it now, no need to get into it today.
I focus instead on my four-year-old nephews firing ahead in their matching navy shorts and white t-shirts, russet hair flapping as they go. All around us are thick, aged trees and secret passages leading to hidden patches of grass, and I can’t help remembering how my sisters and I used to play here in the Botanics when we were kids too. Cat would be shouting loudly and leading the game, while I would be going along with whatever she said, even though I was only eleven months younger. And a three-years-younger Jess would be trailing somewhere behind, trying desperately to get involved.
‘Hunter, Sebs, don’t go where we can’t see you,’ Jess calls from beside me. ‘Graham, go after them.’
Obediently, my brother-in-law jogs ahead in his chino shorts and blue shirt, his geek-chic hair waving in the breeze. He growlsand the boys screech with delight, scattering like rabbits as they try to escape his outstretched claws.
I hear our parents’ laughter from somewhere close behind and smile.
And then, in a rush of light, we come out from under the leafy awning again. I feel the sun on my face and immediately put on my wide-brimmed sun hat. On one side, the skyline of Edinburgh rolls majestically across the horizon, from the jut of Arthur’s Seat on the left, all the way along to the castle on the right. On the other side, an apron of green is set in front of the sandstone Georgian house, the heart of the Botanics. Children turn cartwheels in the late July sun, and families wander around, coffees in hand. The air smells of warm pine and grass; rhododendrons from the bushes beyond.
