Today my little girl turned 4. We woke up and had a lovely breakfast, she opened some presents and went off to nursery with a tin full of birthday buns and a huge smile on her face.
I got in the car and drove home, prepared all the ingredients to make her a birthday chocolate cake, sat down, looked up at a picture on the fridge of my dad holding my little girl when she was a little older than 1, and promptly burst into hysterical tears. I sat where I dropped for a while, staring at the photograph, memories flashing before my eyes like a film; trimming his beard for him as he lay in the hospice bed, singing him a song while I did it, holding his hand so tight as if I could keep him with us by holding on, kissing him and saying goodnight. The hardest thing I have ever had to do was to walk out of that room. Walking out and collapsing on my brother, hoping that my dad didn't hear my heart break. Hoping he would sleep soon and stay sleeping, dreaming for eternity.
How can he miss this? How can he not be here to see his grandchildren grow a year older? How can he not be on the other end of the phone to wish her a happy birthday? He was so proud of them all, getting bigger, becoming proper little people. But he's missing this.
It hurts. It hurts more than I can say.