Straightening my Santa hat, I took a deep breath.
‘OK, love?’ my husband Ian, 52, said.
It was Christmas Day 2017, and Ian, my daughter Rhiannon, 17, and I were about to visit someone very special in hospital.
‘Merry Christmas, Dad!’ I said walking onto the ward, as the others sang Jingle Bells.
Dad’s eyes twinkled.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.
He was so thin. At 71, my dad Hugh’s time was running out.
He had lung cancer, heart and kidney problems.
Still, he was a tough old bird.
Not only did he survive that Christmas, he lasted into the New Year and beyond.
But sadly, in April 2018, Dad passed away in a care home.
‘I’ve lost everyone now,’ I sobbed to Ian. ‘Apart from you and Rhiannon.’
My…
