At 17 years old, you are getting ready for your first big night out and you are looking for a tie. Proudly, I tell you that I have some of your dad’s, hung up in the wardrobe alongside his best suit.
“Why are you keeping a dead man’s suit?” you mock.
I had always imagined that, in the same way I was curious about my mum’s wedding dress, you might want to try on your dad’s suit. But, as ever, I could not be more wrong, and my head and heart retreat into a black hole of shame, guilt and inadequacy.
Even though I know I can never be, I have tried to be both mum and dad, but so often I fail. I know I am not always the one you want or need, that I cannot and never will be enough. I am a hopeless driving instructor and know nothing of cars. If your dad were here, he would do it so much better.
I know I frustrate you when I fret and worry about safety, your lack of fear, your fragile confidence and vulnerability as a new driver. But I am your mum, and that is my job. Your dad was so cool. I know and I am sorry.
And now your 18th birthday is imminent. Birthdays are always a tricky time and you will live for ever with the memory of your dad dying just before you turned 11. Today, for some reason, I remember the suit. Taking the heavy, now musty-smelling, dust covered bag from the wardrobe, I unzip it, revealing the dark blue wool garment that fitted your dad so perfectly.
As I lay it on the bed, tears come. Do you remember the rare occasions when he wore it to work? We would tease him that he was off to be a grown-up for the day.
Another twist of my bruised heart and it is time to let another bit of your dad go. I imagine your bewilderment and teenage revulsion as I lie on the bed to have one last cuddle (“Mum that is soooo creepy”). Please allow me one final trip down memory lane, to picture him: awkward, uncomfortable, but just a little bit sexy with his hippy hair and greying, unshaven profile.
But the suit is empty, limp, old and out of fashion, and the smell of him no longer lingers. He is gone.
Charity shop it is, then. After all, you have no need of a dead man’s suit. You are your own man now.