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I can't say goodbye

When the truth came, it was the worst a mum could hear


Published by: Amy Thompson & Kim Willis
Published on: 31st March 2011

Dear Miranda,
Us against the world – that was our motto. Since I’d found out I was pregnant with you, and your dad walked out on us, we’d faced everything together.
‘Just you and me,’ I’d smiled, gazing into your sparkling blue eyes.
As you’d grown up, they weren’t the only things that sparkled, either – you had such a vivid imagination.
‘Mum, can I show you my play?’ you’d beg, acting out stories you’d written about pirates and princesses.
I imagined what you’d be when you were older – a film star or artist maybe.
But when I’d met and married your stepdad Tim, things hadn’t had a fairytale ending. He’d lied about paying the bills, and our house was repossessed.
You were 16 – what was I going to do? How could I give you what you needed in life?
We moved to a tiny house and soon it became my world. I was terrified of stepping outside. I’d been abandoned, humiliated, lied to…. All I wanted was to hide.
Before long, I couldn’t even set foot in our garden without being sick with agoraphobia.
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ you’d say, before going to your part-time job at a greetings card company. ‘I’ll get the shopping on my way home. We’ll watch a film tonight.’
Once again we were a team – me cooking and cleaning while you went to college and work.
‘I’ve got some popcorn,’ you’d grin, arriving home. ‘And Romeo and Juliet, again.’
We’d snuggle on the sofa and watch the famous love story.
Then, when you were 18, you started your own love story, Miranda.
‘I met a gorgeous guy today,’ you beamed one day. ‘I was sorting out the card display in the supermarket where he works.’
‘Does he like you?’ I asked.
‘Well, he dropped the fruit he was holding when he saw me,’ you giggled.
Over the next few weeks, you and Matt, 21, got to know each other better. When he asked you out, I was thrilled for you.
But as your relationship blossomed over the next four years, I realised how much my phobia of setting foot outside was affecting you. While all your friends were moving out, you wouldn’t leave me.
We’d always been a team, Miranda, but the whole point of being a team is supporting each other – not holding each other back.
‘I want to go outside,’ I told you.
‘Are you sure?’ you gasped. I nodded, fighting a wave of nausea.
For the first time in five years, you led me into the back garden. As soon as I got outside, I was sick.
‘Shall we go back?’ you asked gently. I shook my head.
With you by my side, it was easier. You chatted about Matt, work… anything to keep my mind off being outside.
Before I knew it, we’d reached the end of our road. ‘Mum, you did it!’ you squealed.
In a matter of weeks, I was free of the fear that had kept me locked up, and even met a new fella, Paul, 44. You’d given me back my freedom. It was time to give you yours.
‘I want you to be happy,’ I said when Matt asked you to live with him. ‘I can always visit.’
Things looked up even more when you turned 24 and got a place at the Royal Holloway University, in Surrey, to study art. I was so proud.
You’d always been bursting with talent, and held down two jobs while you studied.
But your money didn’t stretch far. Every time I spoke to you, you seemed miserable.
When you finally admitted you were struggling financially, I scraped together what I could.
‘Thanks so much, Mum,’ you gushed down the phone. ‘I think I can get back on track now.’
‘We’re a team,’ I smiled. ‘I’m always here for you.’
A few days later, Matt called. ‘Have you seen Miranda?’ he asked. ‘Her purse and mobile are here, but she’s not.’
We checked everywhere – friends, college, the local pub – before phoning police to report you missing.
Where were you? Had you gone for a walk and run into trouble? Had someone hurt you?
I went out of my mind with worry. It was like when you were seven and I’d taken you shopping. I’d turned my back and in a split-second you’d vanished. Fifteen minutes later, I’d found you in the fitting room – but this time instead of 15 minutes, our search went on for 19 agonising days.
Then, a walker spotted a pair of boots in the River Thames.
You’d lain undiscovered for all of that time, my love.
‘The water was so cold, she could have died on impact,’ police told me. But the fact that it would have been over quickly was little comfort.
You were gone. It had always been us against the world, Miranda. How would I cope without you?
Police didn’t suspect anyone else was involved. They found high levels of alcohol in your blood, and said it looked like you had taken your own life.
Not my girl. I couldn’t believe that. There was no note, no explanation for me or Matt.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I told him. ‘If there was a problem, why hadn’t she come to me?’
‘We’d both have been there for her,’ he sobbed.
At your funeral, in January 2009, I clung to the hope that whatever had happened to you had been a tragic accident. I was sure you wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.
But at your inquest, the coroner ruled that you’d taken your own life. My grief was overwhelming.
You’d always been there for me. Was that the problem? Did you think I was too fragile to cope with your problems, too? Did you feel like you always had to be the strong one?
I wish I could ask you these things. I wish you’d talked to me. I’m your mum, sweetheart. Any pain you were feeling, any unhappiness, I would’ve found a way to make it better.
I would’ve saved you… if only you’d have let me.
But I hadn’t seen a single sign you were unhappy. I’d no idea you were sad or troubled. How hard you must have struggled to keep it from me.
After you died, I struggled, too. I found myself hiding away again.
Then I remembered your face the day you helped me get to the end of the road. That gorgeous smile, those huge sparkling blue eyes.That’s how I’ll always remember you. So I keep going, for you.
It kills me that I never got to say goodbye. If I’d known the final time I spoke to you would be the last, I’d never have hung up that phone, Miranda. I’d have kept you talking as long as it took for you to open up. I’d have told you not to worry, how none of it mattered because you’d always have me, and I’d always have you.
It’s too late to tell you that now. And, even though I know I should say goodbye, I’m still not ready to let you go.
I thought it would always be us against the world, my darling. Some days I feel so angry that you’re not here with me, that we’re no longer a team.
But most days, I just miss you – more than words can say.
Love Mum xxx
Marion Tennant, 60, Shoeburynes, Essex