I was 11 when my mum told me that she was going into hospital because her ‘headaches’ were troubling her. We were on a walk together and I remember her starting to talk as she took my hand to cross the road. I asked her how long she’d be away for, and she told me that she didn’t know but it may be a few months. I’m 44 now and she still hasn’t come home. I promised her on that walk that I would write to her every day. I kept that promise, writing each night before I went to bed. I wrote until I ran out of paper, but I never heard back. I used to hide the letters under my mattress and, every so often, I would give my dad a carrier bag full of ‘My Little Pony’ envelopes to give to her. I didn’t ever ask him what she said or even if he gave them to her but that feeling when I didn’t hear back is one that I’ll never forget. My mum had a number of hospital admissions prior to this one. Nobody ever told me what was really happening though. I would just see my dad standing in my mum’s spot by the school gate and I’d know that she was gone again.