I’ve never been one to make a fuss.

When you only have one minute to get five children awake and into the air raid shelter there’s no time for hugs and kisses. I know they think I’m bossy, but until they’ve been in that situation themselves, who are they to judge?

And all that time my husband away god-knows-where. Parachuting into Paris they said. With a cyanide pill in his pocket, in case he landed in the wrong part of town. Best not to think about how that could have ended up.

After the first few times, we’d all sleep in our clothes, the children and me. To save time you see. Bobby was always the slowest; a bit dim-witted when he first wakes up, that one. Still, he came good in the end. Big job at one of those computer companies.

But like I said, no point making a fuss. So when I got these twinges in my stomach after aquarobics this morning, I just put it out of my mind at first. Got back home and made myself a nice cup of tea and my usual ham sandwich. Low-fat bread of course to keep my weight down – but I do like a decent slap of butter on it.

Then it kept getting worse. And in the end, even I decided to call my eldest daughter. She’s the nearest for one thing, and for another she can be counted on to not say anything sentimental. “Come on then,” she said, “Let’s get you in the car and get it checked out.”

To think that was only a few hours ago. Turns out it’s a blocked bowel.

“We could operate,” that boy-doctor had said. He didn’t sound very convincing. And I wasn’t very convinced.

“Or what?” I asked.

“Or you’ll die in the next few hours” he replied. Calm as anything. Also not one to make a fuss, I’ll give him that.

I considered my choices. An operation at my age is no small potatoes. I could die on the table. Or I might have all that carry on and then what? Probably end up with one of those contraptions like Edith-next-door had. No thank you.

It’s about time to go anyway I reckon. Five children, fourteen grandchildren. Even a smattering of great grandchildren. It’s enough, isn’t it?

“Don’t call them till it’s over’” I instructed my daughter. The last thing I want is a load of weeping and wailing and wild declarations.

My eldest granddaughter told me she loved me once. I didn’t know what to say. I made allowances, because she’d just had a baby the day before and maybe it was the hormones.

“Never mind about that,” I told her, pushing her out the front door. “Time for you to go for a walk. Leave the baby with me. It doesn’t do to get too attached. At least half an hour, or I won’t let you back in. He’ll survive.”

So I’ll just leave quietly. Like when my babies arrived in this world. I don’t know what those young ones are thinking of, with all their shouting and carrying on. What a drama about just having a baby. You don’t do that if you’re worried about waking up the others sleeping in the next room. You just bite your cheek and get on with it.

Ooh, I can feel those painkillers kicking in now. They put me on a drip or something. It’s making me feel quite strange. Kind of drifty…

I see my daughter approaching the bed, but I can’t seem to speak properly. Like in a dream when you need to say something, and your mouth won’t work.

Suddenly I’m filled with an enormous rush of warmth. My heart feels huge. I feel like I’m expanding past the bed, filling the whole room. My daughter’s so beautiful – even now, at nearly 60.

I feel so connected to her.

I realise, in a burst of shock, just how much I’ve denied myself this feeling all my life. It feels so wonderful. So full of light and joy.

I want to take her in my arms and fly around the room with her. To congratulate her on her cleverness and her mothering and her career. To tell her…

I drift further into the painkillers. They are taking my words. My thoughts even. Drawing me into oblivion.

But they can’t take this feeling away.

“What’s that?” she asks. So I must have made some sound. I gather all my strength. All that determination which has carried me through the twists and turns of life, and with my last drops of consciousness, I force my mouth to move.

“I love you. All.”