Context Galore

I’ve just returned from what I can only describe as a rather unexpected, and in many ways, profound journey—a family odyssey, if you will. One I’d never really imagined I’d embark on. You see, this year I lost two aunts, both well into their nineties. That’s a good innings, by any measure. Yet the truth is, I hadn’t seen either of them for over two decades. Contact had been sporadic at best. One of them, sadly, had slipped into dementia long ago, so even if I’d visited earlier, it’s unlikely she would have remembered me. Which is a poignant thought because, in the years I spent as a young child in Madrid, she looked after me while my mother found her footing in London. A little family history is in order. My mother’s side is Spanish, originally. She emigrated to London in the 1960s, met my father, and had me. The rest, history. But my mother never returned to Spain—at least not alive. She passed away in 1993 at the tragically young age of 52. I mention this because I’m now 53, and the whole thing has a certain symmetry, if not a sense of unfinished business. Spain, that long-lost homeland for my family, had become an emotional hinterland. And so, this journey, at its heart, was not just about saying goodbye to two aunts I had barely known in recent years. It was about reconnecting, in a way, with my own story. And on that note, yes, my mother did return to Spain—though only in death. She was buried there, and that fact has gnawed away at me for years. You see, it’s been over 15 years since I last visited her grave. Another uncomfortable truth I’ve carried with me, another unresolved piece of the puzzle that I’ve had to confront on this journey. Now, bear with me, because there’s a story arc here. My mother was laid to rest in the plot of a family friend. At the time, I was young—utterly lost, really. I had no idea what to do, nowhere to turn. My mother’s closest friend, her soulmate in life, stepped in. It had to be her, no question. They’d been through everything together—two single mothers, both immigrants, trying to find their way in London. They were, as people say, sisters from another mister. When my mum died, I believe a part of her best friend died with her. But life has a way of moving on, even when we’re not ready. Eventually, my mum’s friend left London too, returning to the village of her birth in Spain, taking with her her own daughter, who was also my friend. And there I was, suddenly alone. But I was lucky in a way—back then, I had a wonderful boyfriend, and life, as it tends to, carried on. I would visit Spain each year, to see my mum’s friend and her daughter, and to pay my respects at my mum’s grave. But life moved fast. That lovely boyfriend and I went our separate ways, and I did what many do in times of emotional upheaval—I travelled. It was a kind of self-imposed rehabilitation. During that nomadic period, I had some of the most remarkable experiences of my life, from the temples of Cambodia to the fjords of New Zealand and everything in between. I was, at long last, happy. And then, of course, life called me back. I met the man who would become my husband, and with him came the next chapter—the one where I had to finally grow up. For years, I kept in touch with my childhood friend and her mother—my mum’s best friend. We had an enduring bond, one that stretched across many visits and shared memories. But then, not long after I got married, there was a falling out. The reasons seemed important at the time, though today they completely baffle me. Whatever the cause, it led to a rift, a chasm that quickly widened. Long story short, the communication stopped. The visits stopped.

As the years went by, I would often toy with the idea of reconnecting. After all, this wasn’t just any family—my mother was buried in their family plot. And yet, the fallout meant that I hadn’t visited my mum’s grave either. But I rationalised it. I convinced myself that it didn’t matter, that my mother wasn’t really there, that she lived on in my heart. It’s a comforting narrative, one that I clung to, and one that might well have lasted me the rest of my life. But then, out of the blue, came a text from my childhood friend’s cousin. The message delivered the news I hadn’t expected to hear: my mother’s best friend had died. She was 88. I wasn’t prepared for the emotions that followed. It’s hard to put into words how deeply the news affected me. There’s something utterly paralysing about realising you’ve run out of time—when the window for reconciliation has closed, and you’ve no one to blame but yourself. I’d assumed, as so many of us do, that I had all the time in the world to make things right. But it turns out, we don’t. We are all living on borrowed time. And so, the decision was made. I had to repair the rift with my childhood friend and go back to that grave—this time to pay my respects to two people. Along the way, I would stop off to see the last remaining aunt, the one still living, before she too wrote the final chapter of her life and joined her ancestors in the great beyond.

So, I took an extended leave from work and set off to do what I should have done years ago. I travelled to Madrid, collected my last remaining aunt, and together we made the journey north to visit the family who, in a very real sense, had saved me. Without them, I’d likely have spent years lugging my mother’s ashes around in a little urn, unsure of where they truly belonged. The experience was cathartic, emotional, and deeply humbling. Above all, I was struck by the generosity of spirit I encountered. There was no judgement, no recrimination—just open arms and warmth. It was as if we all understood, almost silently, that someone had to be the one to make the first move. And it’s not always about who’s at fault, but who has the strength to step forward. Once you grasp that, you realise that few rifts are beyond repair. And now, I have my 'sister' back. It’s a bond I thought I’d lost, but one that feels as strong as ever. I can’t wait to see her again, and for her and her family to visit me—hopefully at some new, wonderful home, wherever that ends up being, whenever that moment comes.