We had our good days, we had our good times with our daughter back to happiness. Bella would seem just fine.
This is hard for a mother of an addicted child: The problem child can function, carry on with a successful career, have good times socially. So, you think there is no longer a problem.
Things happened, things were put right.
Then you have feelings of utter despair. Of looking at the night sky wondering if your daughter roams the street–is comatose in her bed–will she wake again? You hear a siren and panic, is an ambulance heading her way? You walk the streets with a smile on your face, and broken glass in your heart. You see her peers, and wonder why your daughter can’t enjoy life like them. A house with curtains closed in the midday sun, brings a vision of her: ill in bed. Music in the distance, drifting on the air, is she listening too?
I wanted to see Bella, but I was frightened to bump into her. Frightened to see an alcoholic usurp my daughter’s beautiful face.
Then your daughter, the problem child, the addict appears at your door, her cheeks a healthy glow. Dressed in uniform, ready for work. She brings you freesia, a bunch of sweet-smelling colour. She shares her wit, her plans, her dreams for the future.
And you relax.
But the cycle starts again.
The cycle of a constant bereavement.