Sixteen

"It's yellow again R!" I say, somewhat uncharitably. She was already in bed last night when I suggested we meet for 15 and instead I placed it with her lovely eldest daughter. Bit beyond the call of a regular babysit I would say. Anyway she's keen to make up for it and I am being disparaging about the fabric. "But it's the backing I used for J's quilt" she says plaintively. I'm not sure it's going to weather well - the soggy evening already has it looking splodgy as we tie it on. But a fitting choice it is as a testament to a mother's love for her daughter. Especially with the terrible news today that the investigation into Jaydan, the missing 17 year old from Oxford, has become a murder enquiry. I also read today in the paper about a mum who's written a book about her daughters 5742 days alive. She died at 15 after taking ecstasy. Her mothers only child. I can't begin to imagine anything so terrible. She says if her condition that there isn't a word to describe it. She needs 9 words to describe what she has become: I'm a single mother whose only child is dead. Maybe it's a good thing our language doesn't have a word for such a tragedy. I thank God every day for my good fortune in having had children and often find myself silently praying nothing awful will happen to them.