On the January 17, 2000, I was in a car crash. I was living in France at the time. I don’t remember much about the crash. I know that we all walked out of the car relatively unscathed. Shocked, scared, and confused, yes. Injured, no.
I remember thinking that I should probably call my mum and dad back in England. Tell them what happened. What I didn’t know in that moment was that back in the UK, I didn’t have a mum to call anymore.
That same afternoon, on the 17th January 2000, was also the day my mum had decided to take her own life.
I found out about my mum’s death standing in the reception of the hotel we had walked into after the crash.
“Liz, she’s gone.”
That’s all I heard at the other end of the phone. It’s all I had to hear. I knew. It was my sister’s voice. She’d managed to track me down in the hotel. Continue reading.
Originally posted on Tiny Buddha.