Dear Diarmuid

It's been four years since you took your last breath. Four years since we spoke.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Life, for me, is divided into two - the 'before' you died and the 'after'. It couldn't be any other way. You were inextricably linked to every single thing I did and felt and thought before 17th January 2012 - every meal, every bedtime story to the children, every holiday, every laugh, every car trip together, every decision about our children's education/hobbies/play dates/doctor's visits. *Everything*. Even when we weren't physically together, we were living this life together. And then you were gone. I had lost you and every aspect of my world changed forever and I had to become a different person.

I'd like to think you'd be proud now. Our boys are men. Our little girl is almost 12. All three are funny, mature, interesting human beings. You should hear the boys play guitar/drums/keyboards. You'd be blown away by them. You should hear Aisling talk about science, books, life. She's incredible. I wonder if you met us now how would you feel? Proud? Surprised?  Shocked? Disappointed? Annoyed? Happy? Sad? Would we feel shy together because it's been so long since we saw you? Would you recognise our personalities? What would you have done differently?

I've tried my best to keep things going. Some days I attack life and I fight hard to help the kids through a myriad of challenges. Other times, I just get too tired and all I can do is muddle through. Then there are days when I just give up. Parenting alone is the hardest thing I've ever had to do and there have been so many rough days since you went, so many unseen challenges. I wish I could say, four years on, that everything is perfect. It's not. There have been too many obstacles to overcome. But I will keep on muddling through. I'll keep on going and I'll keep on trying.

You would be so happy and relieved to know that some of our friends and family have been amazing and have stuck by us through all the rough times. You'd be upset and shocked to know that some have left and the kids and I no longer see or hear from them. They didn't have the patience to wait for us to "get over you" and they didn't have the warmth of heart to want to support us. But I forgive them. I pity them for their weakness. And also I hope they get big puss-filled painful boils on their asses. (I haven't changed THAT much I suppose.)

Diarmuid, my husband, the father of my children, but mostly my best friend, I want to assure you that you will always be remembered and always loved.

"The fact that someone is dead may mean that they are not alive, but doesn't mean that they do not exist." [Julian Barnes​]