For months, I’d been excited for my holiday. My daughter Sophia, 26, and I had booked a week in Copenhagen, where we looked forward to girly days spent wandering round the shops, sipping coffees and getting dressed up for dinner.
Yet just a week before we were due to fly, the landline rang. My heart sank. There’s only one person who rings that number these days. My 78-year-old mum Jean.
I’d known that she’d had a cold the last couple of days, but I wasn’t too worried. I’d asked my brothers and cousins to drop in to check on her, and texted
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