To cut a long story short, what Rachel and Richard Miller wanted out of life changed. They hadalwaysbeen pulled in opposite directions, and I had been the only glue that had held them together. Hence, their eventual split. Yep—Daddy accepted thathugepromotion and moved back to Rhode Island, and Mum and I stayed put.
Richard aka Dick Miller left us when I was eight years old. Our relationship since then has been on and off, mainly due to the thousands of miles separating us. And now, those miles were being swallowed up as I sat there, heading to my new home, miles above the sea.
I was beingrippedaway from everything I knew—my friends and school. I was travelling to a foreign place where I had no one—well, no one apart from my father.
I wouldn’t have said I was overly close with Richard, but Ididcare about him. He was my dad; that’s the way it usually worked.
Yes, he wasn’t there to look for monsters under my bed or clean my cuts and scrapes from eight onwards, but he wasalwaysat the other end of the phone or on-screen when I needed him.
During my younger years, he’d called meeveryweekend. I would tell him all about school and what I had been doing with my friends.
When I got older, he bought me an iPhone. I remember unwrapping it and seeing his number programmed in. I was so excited and felt so grown up, sending him pictures and text messages frequently. Having a phone helped us to stay in touch more regularly.
Unfortunately, over the last couple of years, we’d drifted apart.
I blamed the recent distance between us on myself. I had become lazy and didn’t respond as much; life as a teenager and dealing with exams took over. As a result, my father’s text messages and calls became less frequent.
My mother had explained that he’d become a principal at a new school that neededimproving. She told me that taking on something that challenging could be time-consuming.
But that one time, when I needed him the most, he was there. The night Mum died.
I remember the police cars outside my house when I returned from a day out with my friends. I had been shopping and went to McDonald's to celebrate my birthday. I was so happy and psyched up for the holidays.
As I had walked into our house, Aunt Patricia was with a police officer, and they told me the news.Devastateddoesn’t even touch the sides.
As soon as the details of Rachel’s death reached Richard, Dad called me immediately. Rhode Island was around five hours behind the UK, but he had arranged to fly over that evening, putting hisentirelife on hold. It had taken him well over a dayto get to me. I remember how tired he looked, and how very sorry he was. My sweet mother was dead, and we wouldneversee her again.
When my father arrived in the UK, I appreciated his support. He had pulled me against his strong chest, his spicy aftershave enveloping me. At the crematorium, he had been in the row behind as I stood with Patricia and Mark, Pat’s husband. I remember his hand on my shoulder as I stood stiffly, listening to the speeches but taking nothing in.
Dad had also given me space. After the guests had left, I was given time alone beside Mum’s coffin, and I spoke to her, with that hard piece of wood separating us. I told her everything I planned to do with my life and how I would make her proud one day.
I hadn’t cried that day. Odd, I know; I’d just felt numb and tired and then, at the wake,overwhelmed.
The whole day had been emotionally draining, and I still didn’t feel any closure. Not even after saying my goodbyes. And why? Because my mother had been ripped away from me too early. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. What about the kids my mother taught in school, and how she looked after Mrs Smith, our incontinent neighbour? There was also all the food in the freezer that I’d never be able to eat it all by myself. The random, mundane thoughts that went through my mind during those first few weeks were bizarre.
After the funeral, my father had to return to the States. His school was closed for the summer, but he needed to get back to make changes at home in preparation for my arrival.
He had left me with Patricia and Mark temporarily. And I had missed him.
Richard called me via Zoom every day. Sometimes, we’d stay on call and not say much, but the lines of communication were open. He tried to get me excited about the move, telling me all about the community and how many kids there were on his street around my age.
He also spoke about school and how I would attend the local one where he was the principal. I had attempted to sound enthused, but a huge part of me wanted to remain in England. Maybe to live with Patricia and Mark permanently, but it wouldn’t have worked out. They had never wanted kids of their own.
At one time in my life, I wouldn’t have changed anything. Now, if I could, I would changeeverything.
After another hour, the plane started its descent and eventually landed, and the ‘fasten your seatbelt’ signs went off. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait around foranotherflight. I’d boarded the plane at Heathrow in London, had changed at Washington Dulles, and had finally landed in Warwick, Rhode Island.
The cabin wasn’t overly warm due to climate control, but my tee was still sticking to my back with sweat. I put it down to my nerves, considering I had no idea what the next few weeks of my life would look like. It was just a blank page and one I so wanted to fill. I was a planner and craved routine. It took my mind off what life without my mother felt like. Pretty shit, I’m not going to lie.
It took another twenty minutes before we were allowed off the plane and into the terminal, and after a quick trip to the toilets, akarestrooms, I went to wait for my luggage. I only had one case to tide me over until the company my father engaged shipped the rest of my stuff. He’d used an international moving organisation to transport the bulkier items. I hadn’t kept much furniture, just some priceless bits and bobs that reminded me of Mum. The stuff I’d decided against keeping had been sold on eBay.
There was only one terminal at T F Green airport, which would at least ensure I didn’t get lost.
After spending what felt like ages in baggage claim, I slowly went through customs and into the arrivals lounge. Part of me hoped they found a valid reason to rescind my visa and send me home, but no such luck. I followed a row of people who varied between tourists, airport staff and people who possibly travelled for work.
My father, Richard, was waiting for me, holding a sign with my name on and clutching a large pink WELCOME balloon. His face lit up as soon as he spotted me, and we both gave each other a nervous wave. At least I wasn’t the only one bricking it.
I took the balloon, and he pulled me in for a hug. This one felt awkward, but I went with it.
