Dear Florence,

I already know you’re going to read this and roll your eyes at it, thinking I’m an embarrassing mother to send you such a soppy email. And I know it’s definitely not going to be the birthday present you were expecting this year (I can’t believe you’ll be eighteen and all grown up when you read this). But, hey, as I look down at you right now, asleep in my arms, where you’ve effectively pinned me down for the last two hours may I add, I realised that the best present I could ever give you is this – to let you know how dearly and unconditionally loved you are.

You have made me and your dad the happiest people on the planet. We cannot wait to watch you grow up into the fine young lady that we know you will become. There are so many firsts to look forward to – your first step, your first word, your first swim in the sea – and whatever you achieve in life, we will forever be proud of you.

There was a time before you were born when I was scared that, if something ever did happen to me, the memories you have of me would fade. It’s a feeling I’ve known too well. But a very wise girl once gave me a special glass jar, one now filled with memories of your grandmother; I’m sure you know the one. And then once upon a time, I used to write emails to myself. Although, I’m sure I’ll have told you about that by now too. It’s your dad’s favourite story, and don’t tell him I said this but mine too, about how these emails unintentionally drove us apart but ultimately bought us back together. In many ways I’m grateful to the emails, not only because they led me to your father, but because they led me to you too.

So, you might be thinking, why have I brought all this up? Well, this gave me a brilliant idea for the perfect birthday present. I thought I’d make you your very own virtual memory jar, in the form of birthday emails. Every year, I’m going to send you an email (to this address) with some soppy words and stories to share with you. So suck it up, because I promise one day you’ll look back and thank me.

So, Florence, the question is, where do I begin? …

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Acknowledgements