I miss my Mother's Day breakfast. My husband, Andy, and some of our adult kids enjoy coffee and pastries after the early Sunday Mass without me. I’m at home, a blanket drawn up to my chin with razor blades scratching my throat and a drum beating in my head: I’m unwell.

Mother's Days, like birthdays, can be full of expectations. We don’t expect to be sick. We want all our kids to remember us. Will they visit? Will they phone? Will they say, "I love you, Mum"?