Husband and I took walks in the morning; sun bathed on the beach, had cocktails at sundown, then a gourmet evening meal.
Fabulous holidays. Where would we be without them? Without a break from work and routine, a release from the heartache at home?
No–I worried still. We had left our daughter in a state of crisis.
I looked out at the sea, at the sun going down, the moon appearing. I listened to the roll of waves, the squawk of birds, children playing with glee. Every sight, sound and smell, held memories of my daughter. I saw her in everything. I felt I would lose her. I worried she would die.
I was on holiday, but my mind was home with her.
A text message appeared on my phone, from my other daughter–she had seen Bella in the beauty parlour, waiting to have a treatment.
I was glad. I was mad.
How could she go from being so desolate to so carefree, in a matter of days?
This would become a pattern, with each repeat I suffered in the same way as the first.
With our suntan and suitcase, we headed back home.
On the journey, my anxiety level climbed with the plane. I wondered what I was going home to. I wanted to see Bella, but I dreaded what I would see.