I remember the weight of her hand in mine, lighter than it had ever been, as though her body had already begun to let go before her spirit did. Deborah had always filled every room with noise, colour, and stubborn defiance; watching that energy fade felt like witnessing a slow eclipse. For five and a half years she fought, not for herself alone, but for Hugo and Eloise, who clung to the idea that their mum was indestructible.

Telling them she was gone was a cruelty I still struggle to forgive myself for, even though I know it wasn’t my choice. I had brought their mother into the world, and I was there when she left it, yet I was powerless to protect them from the aftermath. Now, in the quiet spaces she once filled, we keep her alive in stories, laughter, and the fierce love she taught us to share.