The moment my daughter died, I felt something no mother should ever admit. Grief crashed into me, but so did a guilty, shattering relief. For five and a half years I watched bowel cancer steal Deborah’s body, her laughter, her future. At 40, she was still my little girl, and a mother herself. Her teenagers, Hugo and Eloise, lost their world that day. I had brought her into life. I was there as she left it. And in that silent room, holding her hand, I realised the one truth no one prepares you for when you become a parent: sometimes love means letting go before your heart is rea… Continues…