Inside the envelope was a four-leaf clover. I pulled it out, trying to be as gentle as possible, running my fingers over the soft silk like green texture. My hands were trembling, as was my lip, my whole body fighting to keep the tears from rolling down my face. But then it came. That one final gasp for air that you manage to take right before your whole heart explodes, sadness flooding over you. The cold of the wall pierced through me as I sank down to the floor, still clutching the clover in my hands. The envelope was damp from the salty tears that I just couldn’t hold in, black ink smudging across the front, the word Isabella barely visible anymore. My own name, a name I’ve seen and heard more times than I could possibly count has never before looked so unfamiliar. Her handwriting, messy, yet fancy, just like her. She was a dreamer. Heck, she was many things. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore without her image floating into my mind. I picture her behind me, pulling my hair back each and every morning just as I would like it. I would complain, and she’d always tell me I looked beautiful. Being seven, that was the best compliment I could have ever received. The smells of breakfast food would waft into my nose, rich, sweet, sugary. Handing me my plate she’d say: “You’re lucky Isabella, you know that don’t you?” She’d made a habit to repeat the same eight words each and every single day for seven whole years. Sighing, I would stare up into her deep ocean blue eyes, which were somehow never the same as they were the day before, and I’d reply “I do know that Mum.” Exactly that, every time, without fail. I took our little ritual for granted; it never seemed special to me, until it was gone, harshly taken away from me, forever. Now I wake up in the mornings, and I do my hair myself, no one is standing behind me to pull every little strand into place. I make my way downstairs and grab a piece of bread for breakfast, the sickly smell of strong coffee being the only scent filling the room. She never liked coffee. Neither do I. Dad grabs the mug, spilling parts on the countertops, fixing his tie, roughly pecks me on the forehead and makes his way through the hall. At the very last second he’ll turn, calling to me, “You look nice darling,” before the door slams shut and I’m left alone, holding back the tears. It’s the same every morning. You look nice. Not beautiful, nice. He doesn’t tell me I’m lucky, he barely even sees me all day, leaving too early to make awkward small talk, and getting back too late to even ask me how my day went. Not that he cares much. Don’t get me wrong, my Dad, well he’s great and all, he’s family and he’s all I’ve really got right now, but he’s not Mum. He’s not and he never will be.
3 months earlier

Vibrant and colourful party plates were thrown onto the bed, spilling crumbs on the crisp white sheets. Remains of confetti and childish wrapping paper filled the floor, making the hideous navy carpet no longer visible, thank goodness for that. It was Mum’s 40th birthday and here we were, in the hospital, where she’d been staying for the past couple of months. There was good news though; the scarily expressionless nurse had told us that she was on the mend; she could even be out of there by the end of the week. She gave the speech in such a low, dreary tone you’d think she was giving out physics homework, not announcing that the one person I loved more than anyone in the world was getting better. Heaving a slightly overdramatic sigh, she stared down at her dusty brown coffee in the lovely Styrofoam cups they provide you with in grand places like hospitals, reminded us to try to keep our voices down so as not to disturb the other guests and left the room, adjusting her perfectly polished nametag as she did so. Gwendolyn. It suited her.
Turning back to Mum, I plumped myself down onto the ridiculously uncomfortable bed, clumsily shoving plates away as I tried to get as close to her as possible, feel the warmth of her skin and her pure sweet smell. As she wrapped her tan slender arms around me, I watched the tenderness flood back into her face; her cheeks rosy once more as she smiled down at me, a single teardrop fell from her right eye and rolled slowly down her face.
“I can’t believe you did this for me.” She spoke slower than she usually did, almost as if she couldn’t think of the word, but everything she said was spoken so gently, dancing off her tongue. “I didn’t...” she paused for almost a minute; I was starting to doubt she would finish the sentence. That happened to her a lot lately. “I just didn’t, I thought you would be too busy.” Just as she said that, I flashed a glance at my dad who had been standing at the foot of the bed but made his way down and coiled his fingers through her auburn wavy hair, which fell down way past her shoulders. He took a deep breath and moved closer, giving her a long but nonetheless adorable peck on her forehead.
“Darling, we could never forget about you.” He met her eyes for what seemed like an eternity, and I longed to know what they were both thinking at that very second. And just as quickly, the moment was over. “Budge up Isabella; you’re taking up all the space.” I awkwardly shuffled to the edge of the single bed, which moved at the most unexpected times, until I was practically falling off the side. I didn’t mind though; as Dad kicked off his shoes and joined us, arm around Mum, just about reaching to tickle the back of my ear, the single place on my whole entire body where I was ticklish. Squirming uncomfortably, all three of us broke into a giggle, and when we couldn’t contain ourselves any longer we laughed until our stomachs hurt, so loud that Gwendolyn had to come back in just to tell us to be quiet. That only made me laugh harder.