sorry business
I haven’t written much about when I lost Claire last year, and had to get her from the police station twenty minutes later, because it was the single most painful experience of my life. Worse than migraine or labour or a broken leg, worse than heartbreak or depression. I would have torn myself apart if it would have done any good, turned back time, brought Claire back. Just thinking about it makes me ill.
When the bookstore owner came to say that Claire had been found and was safe, my knees buckled. I fell into a stranger’s arms, weeping. (She was a mum and completely understood.)
It dawned upon me only a few weeks ago that that is how the mothers of the Stolen Generation felt, but not for twenty minutes: for ever.
Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. But it’s a start.
