Buried in a sparkly coffin

It was my sister’s favourite time of year...and the time she was snatched from our lives forever

Debbie Hudson, 50, Great Harwood, Lancashire

Growing up with my little sister Susan, we were always side by side, hand in hand.

Just two years apart, we shared everything – our bedroom, our toys and our secrets.

When we were apart at school, I’d miss her.

If we ever bickered, I’d cry myself to sleep. Knew she did, too.

She wasn’t just my sister. Susan was my best friend.

Our mother Annette was always proudly telling the other mums at the school gates about our bond.

A close family, we’d spend our weekends and evenings together – at the park or watching a film...

But the highlight in all of our calendars, the day we looked forward to the most, was Christmas. Especially Susan. You couldn’t take the smile off her face when the plans began. Always begging Mum to hang up decorations early.

‘It’s only October,’ Mum would laugh.

And when Christmas finally did roll around, Susan was in her element, staring at the tree in the corner of our lounge, the flashing lights reflected in her wide eyes.

We loved going to Santa’s grotto in the local shopping centre every year, Susan bouncing with excitement in the line. And she kept on believing in the magic of Christmas as we both grew up and moved out. Our bond didn’t cease, either. Always in and out of each other’s houses, we still spent Christmas together. I had my kids first, Gary and Jason, and then Susan had Leanne in November 1990, followed by Adam in July 1992. We hoped they’d be best friends, just like us. Leanne and Adam were both diagnosed with disabilities. Adam had left temporal lobe defect, which meant he had regular seizures and the mental age of a 3-year old, while Leanne suffered from epilepsy with her diagnosis of Lennox-gastaut syndrome.

Susan cared for them, managed their medication, kept them comfortable and happy.

Despite the challenges, she was determined to care for her children herself at home.

Mum and I popped in every day to help out.

Throwing all her energy and love into her family home, Susan made us so proud.

She was always selfless, always putting others first.

So it was no surprise her favourite part of Christmas wasn’t the receiving.

‘I can’t wait to give you your gift,’ Susan told me every year.

‘Aren’t we getting on a bit for all that?’ I ribbed, knowing full well the answer she would give. ‘Never!’ she laughed. Each present was the result of months of planning for her.

She once bought me a sewing machine – something I’d been talking about endlessly.

The following year, she made

Susan wasn’t just my sister. She was my best friend

us all calendars with special photographs of the family.

In 2014, our local council in Rishton announced a cutback on funding for festive lights and trees.

Susan was horrified.

‘We have to do something about this,’ she told me.

With the help of other locals, she joined the committee for the Switch On Rishton group, raising cash for the decorations.

Fundraising events, markets, raffles – she was up at the crack of dawn and working into the night. Anything to save Christmas! And it was a success. That December, Susan stood proudly in the village square, admiring the sparkling lights and trees.

‘Susan has worked so hard,’ the villagers remarked.

I felt so proud of her.

Our own Mrs Christmas.

Last year, just like the decades before it, Susan erected three Christmas trees around the house.

The presents she’d bought months before sat, immaculately wrapped, beneath the centrepiece tree.

Flashing lights and tinsel hung across the walls.

Only, Christmas 2017 was going to be extra-special for me and my husband John, 66.

Our first grandchild Jacob had arrived a month earlier – in Southampton, where my son Gary, 32, and his partner lived.

‘We’re going to spend Christmas with them this year,’ I told Susan. ‘I hope you understand.’

‘Oh, OK then,’ she said, but the disappointment was clear on her face.

It would be our first Christmas spent apart.

‘But don’t worry,’ I soothed, ‘We’ll have a second Christmas together on the 27th.’ That perked Susan up. Packing my bags a few days before, I kissed Susan goodbye.

And on Christmas Day, I spent the morning having blissful ‘firsts’ with Jacob.

After lunch, I took myself away to video-call my sister.

Happily dancing around the living room, she bragged about the traditional Christmas cake she’d made.

‘You’re missing out,’ she giggled.

I knew she’d be making sure Leanne, Adam and our mum were having the perfect day.

Falling asleep that night, I was content – full of turkey dinner and mulled wine, thinking about the great day I’d had with Jacob and Gary.

And with the celebrations set to continue in two days, I couldn’t wait to share more joyous moments with my dad David, 76, Mum and Susan.

So, when my mum rang on Boxing Day afternoon, I thought it was to discuss our plans.

But her words were like a bucket of cold water being tipped over me.

‘Susan’s been hit by a car,’ Mum cried. ‘They couldn’t save her.’

Her words, punctuated by hysterical sobs, came tumbling through the phone.

‘What?’ I gasped, my knees giving way.

Reeling in shock, I couldn’t get my words out.

Eventually, I explained to John that I needed to get home and we rushed to pack.

Kissing Jacob goodbye, I knew in that moment nothing would ever be the same again.

As we walked through the door at home, reality hit. Hard.

The tears streaming down Mum’s face, the confused looks from Leanne and Adam...

it would be the first year we’d ever spent apart