Bella was tired of travelling the road she had chosen, tired of its destination.
She wanted to go to rehab. She researched different places, found the one that suited her.
I took it in my stride, I didn’t know what else to do. But oh, my daughter going to rehab, whilst Amy Winehouse sang of not going. Rehab was a presence, a huge rock in my gut.
I organised Sunday dinner, the day before Bella went. Her sister with her family, two grandsons now came too.
We sat around the table and chatted, a normal event. I could not take any more, my head was a sackful of pain. I kissed Bella, wished her luck, and took myself to bed, to allow my silent tears to fall.
Bella waited on the street, early next morning, for a member of the care team to collect, and take her to the detox centre, a two week stay before settling into rehab for twelve months.
She had given me the key to her flat, asked whether Husband and I would collect, and store her belongings, hand the key back to the agent?
With heavy hearts, Husband and I entered the dismal flat. We took her furniture to the tip, picked up her bulging plastic bags. Her whole life there, in those black sacks. I took a last look around the place, made sure we had everything–the mirror–Bella and I had shopped for, still hung on the wall.
Mirror, mirror, what had you seen? No doting husband reflected there, or laughing children doing their hair. Its recollections were of an alcoholic woman, steadying her hand to apply lipstick.
How sad that made me feel.