Almost two years ago, my parents sold my childhood home and moved to the North. They had a few reasons for doing so: a need for a home cheaper to run than our draughty hundred year-old terrace, improving accessibility for my dad after his spinal surgery and, though they denied it for some time, being closer to their only daughter.
It is fitting that he was late, not only because it set a precedent for all of our future meetings, but also because love is not the accumulation of ideal circumstances. Love is messy and sometimes disappointing and rarely as expected.
For World Mental Health Day, I wanted to reflect on a truth not always acknowledged: sometimes, mental illness doesn’t go away.