Dear Megan,
When you were born in May 1988, my beautiful little sister, I was 10 and consumed with grief.
Me, our brother Alistair, then 13, and mum Robyn, 38, were grieving the loss of our beloved dad Tony.
He’d died of a heart attack on the golf course six weeks earlier, when Mum was heavily pregnant with you.
We were heartbroken that you’d never meet your dad.
But your arrival was like sunshine breaking through the dark clouds of loss.
The happiest, kindest child who, on your second birthday, shared out your sweets before eating a single one.
With Dad gone, I helped you build fairy houses, read bedtime stories.
Only, in August 2003, when you were 15, you said your face felt numb.
‘I can’t feel my cheeks,’…
