Sometimes I feel like I’ve lived two different lives. There was the me before my mum died, and the me after – ultimately the same person, but also completely different.
I was 14 when it happened.
My mum, Jacky, and I had always been close. My dad, Frank, moved abroad when I was 12, so growing up, it was just the two of us. Mum was a strong, feisty character who taught me to be the same. In the summer holidays, she’d drive me around the south of France, taught me to paint and passed on her love of books, lending me novels to read, many of which still sit on my shelves today.
As a teenager, our close relationship started to unravel, as I acted out, wanting more independence.…
