‘I’m sorry it’s not better news. I really am.’ She smiled wistfully, reaching her hand out and placing it gently on his shoulder. ‘You know where I am if you need me, OK?’
‘Yeah, I do.’ Fin turned and continued his walk along the corridor. Each step he took brought with it even more anxiety and dread. Was this the final time? Was this the moment he’d been preparing for? Now it was here, he wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to face it.
It’s not about you right now.
She’s dying.
She needs you.
Fin took a deep breath in and closed his eyes, drawing upon every single morsel of energy he had. He raised his hand and knocked loudly on the door.
‘Mum, it’s me, Fin.’ He paused, preparing himself for whatever he was about to be faced with. ‘Can I come in?’
*
Nurse Clara wasn’t wrong when she said his mother was awake, but he had to admit, it wasn’t quite the ‘surge’ of energy he had imagined.
What did you think she was going to be doing? Dancing and singing round the room?
His mother groaned and twisted her lips into a thin smile of welcome.
‘How are we doing today?’ he asked tentatively.
‘Mmm, I’ve felt better,’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘I can imagine.’ He took up his usual seat by her bed and drew her tiny hand into his. ‘Can I get you any more pain relief?’
‘If I have any more, I think my blood would be 100 per cent morphine,’ she wheezed, her breathing laboured and heavy.
Fin gave a small chuckle and swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat. He couldn’t cry, not when she was being so strong.
‘I don’t think I have long now.’ She closed her eyes and gave the faintest squeeze of his hand.
‘Come on …’ he tried to jest. ‘What would Angela say if she heard you talking like that?’
His mother opened her eyes and let a single tear fall down her cheek. ‘Pass me the box, Fin.’
‘Huh?’ He leant in closer, her voice barely scratching the surface of his hearing.
‘The box.’ She lifted her free arm up and pointed at the end of her bed. ‘Bring it to me.’
At once Fin remembered the large cardboard box his mother had caught him rifling through the other day. He slowly let go of her hand and went to retrieve it. For a box full of paperwork and pictures, it was deceptively heavy.
‘Look inside. There’s a wooden box – find it and open it.’
Fin did as he was told and retrieved a small, beautifully carved box from the bottom. He turned the little key andopened the lid. Inside sat piles of letters; there must have been nearly thirty at first glance.
‘They’re yours,’ his mother whispered. ‘They’re all yours.’
Fin pulled out the envelopes and saw, as his mother had said, that every one was addressed to him.
‘What are they?’ he asked, turning them over in his hands.
‘I wrote to you. For so many years I wrote to you.’ The tears were falling thicker and faster now, tiny sobs punctuating her already strained breathing. She held out her hand and Fin placed the pile on to her palm. Slowly, she sifted through them, each one causing a flicker of recognition in her eyes. At last, she stopped and handed him one. ‘I was planning to send this to you in my final days. Read it.’
Fin took the letter and turned it over in his hands. He carefully opened it and pulled out a small A5 piece of paper.
Dear Fin,
