It wasn't supposed to happen this way, I hope you know that. Of course, it was never going to be easy; that much is obvious. But it wasn't supposed to be like this, either.

I know we didn't always see eye to eye. I wasn't really the daughter that you wanted, that you pictured in your head when you were carrying me inside of you. You were so proud when you found out. Pregnancy didn't come easy for you, and I was the lottery win, the one-in-a-million chance. I wasn't even supposed to happen at all despite the myriad of tries.

And yes, you did love me. You were just a little ashamed of how I turned out. I wasn't supposed to be this way: too shy, too ugly, too average. No future Pulitzer Prize winner in the making. I always heard the desperation in your voice when you sang my praises to fellow parents with their ingenious offspring. Do you remember the Clarksons? Oh man, their little Julian was going to rule the world some day. Did Mrs Clarkson have any other topic to talk about other than Genius Julian? Or the Millers? Remember them? You told me that Mrs Miller struggled to become pregnant, just like you. But, unlike you, she ended up with three genies in a bottle, one more talented than the other. Then there was ... what was his name again? Ian? He was destined for greater things from the moment he drew his first breath, at least according to his adoring parents. He was faster, brighter and brainier than all of us put together.

Looking back now, I understand. In the face of my wallflower existence, all these prodigies in the neighbourhood intimidated you. What were you supposed to say about me to the parents of these perfect, wonderful children?

When you looked at me, you must have thought: How will this talentless little creature survive in this hostile world where everybody else is actually born to be something special?

And special I was not. I grant you that. I was the only kid for miles around that was average at everything she did. Come to think of it now: Did my averageness not set me apart? Well, it's a moot point now, I suppose. Because I certainly never felt special. Or born to be anything for that matter.

Janie, my best friend in the whole world at the time, went to university straight after school and seemingly overnight became a renowned historian. And I? I had no idea what to do with my life. The screaming matches we had. Do you remember?

Well, looking at you now, I suspect that you don't remember. I'm not even sure if you know who I am. Most of the time, you are not even looking at me. But once in a while, your eyes meet mine, like a mirror image. Then you smile. But that might just be wishful thinking on my part.

You see, I love you, too. Screaming matches and unfilled expectations or not. All I ever wanted was your approval, your affection. But I get it now. You wanted to toughen me up, teach me survival skills. And you succeeded. I am here now, aren't I?

Old age mellowed you out. Or maybe it was the fact that I finally settled on a career and lifted that weight off your shoulders at least. I remember your 70th birthday like it was yesterday. It was such a wonderful day. I can still feel the big hug you gave me after I finished singing you a little birthday song. Totally talent-free musically, of course, but by then we were both able to laugh about my Mickey Mouse rendition of the song. I might not have become a Nobel Prize winner for anything, but neither has Ian, little Julian or the Millers' gifted genies. What a surprise! Even Janie has more fame than fortune. And fame is relative. Most people find her endless lectures on long-forgotten cultures rather tedious. They are obviously "long-forgotten" for a reason. When I cracked that joke last Christmas, you cracked up. I treasure those moments of comic relief between us. Those little moments, moments of rare but true understanding.

Then there were the big moments. My first proper job. My wedding. The birth of your first grandchild. I had never seen you that proud before as you held this crying little miracle, an expression of awe on your face.

Now you are ghostly pale and so still. Now and again, you whisper something, but, once again, I cannot understand you. How could I, sitting behind this huge Plexiglas sheet, my face obscured by a mask?

The hospital called me an hour ago. I knew you were ill. I knew it was serious. You told me months ago. Since then, I have been thinking about nothing else. About saying our final good-bye. Every scenario in my head was heart-wrenching, was pure agony.

But in none of the scenes in my head was I sitting behind a see-through wall, unable to hold your hand, unable to mutter soothing words, unable to give you a last kiss. Unable to tell you that I understand, that all is forgiven and how much I love you.

I know we had our differences in the past, and I said some hurtful things, but you are my mother, and I love you.

The final good-bye. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.