From beyond THE GRAVE

Smiling down at my newborn son Idris, fast asleep in his cot, I felt a pang.

I’d longed for a baby for years, and my bundle of joy was finally here.

But it was bittersweet.

My mum Vicky would have been an amazing grandmother, but she’d died three years earlier, on my 36th birthday.

She’d had throat cancer, and she was just 59.

Mum was my best friend, and her death broke me.

I still missed her every day, and it broke my heart that she’d never know my baby boy.

I was glad Mum wasn’t suffering anymore, but it didn’t make it any easier.

And raising my newborn without being able to turn to Mum for advice was hard.

I knew Mum was always with me, in my heart, and I talked to her every day. But it wasn’t the same.

My husband Dean, 39,