At the funeral, we had a handful of photos from Mum’s childhood in Northern Ireland, one or two from her time as a police officer in Hong Kong, and one of the four of us, when we (her daughters) were all in primary school. The day after the funeral, we found the mother load.
Hundreds of photos. So many photos we never knew existed.
Mum smiling with her brothers and her sister in Northern Ireland.
Mum working as a police officer in Hong Kong.
Mum on her wedding day.
Mum on her honeymoon.
Mum as the mother of young children.
Then something happens. My mother didn’t want to be in any photos anymore. Her marriage broke down. She had to sell the house. We were all very unhappy. It was a very dark time.
I thought that when Mum died, we would find an explanation. Someone would tell us something at the funeral, or we would find a photo that told us why Mum became so isolated, so ill. I would have The Answer, and be able to avoid becoming unhappy like her, imprisoned in my own head, and completely unable to accept help, or ask for it.
I’m overwhelmed with a feeling of wanting to know about the photos; the events, the parties, the people standing with Mum. I want to ask her all about them. But I know that she wouldn’t have been able to show us her photos and tell us about who was there with her. She was closest to us, her daughters, but she was so, so, private She was a mystery wrapped in an enigma tied up with a riddle.
