Grief-stricken Nichola Gore, 47, knew her daughter would want to help others
WORDS: LOUISE BATY
Walking into the kitchen, I found my daughter Emily singing along to Harry Styles songs as she did the washing-up. Smiling at me, she carried on belting out the notes, making me laugh. It was March 2019 and I’d just finished my weekly late shift at the supermarket where I worked.
Every Thursday evening was the same routine, with Emily, then 17, cooking dinner for her brother Patrick, then 10, while I worked late.
Emily was a caring, protective older sister but then she’d always been an incredibly kind girl. From buying food for homeless people to standing up for school classmates who were being bullied, Emily was driven to help and look after others.
In August 2019, after passing her A-levels with amazing results, she got a place to study sociology and history at The University of Manchester. ‘I can’t wait Mum,’ she told me, as she packed her bags.
She was anxious but excited about uni life as we hugged goodbye at her student accommodation on 8 September 2019.
In the months that followed, she kept me updated with calls and messages. Every Thursday evening, while I worked late she’d FaceTime Patrick at home and they’d eat dinner ‘together’ while my friends loitered in the background, giving them valuable quality time together.
Every few weeks, she’d catch the train home for the weekend and we always loved catching up and hearing her stories about uni and all of the friends she was making. But on Friday 24 January 2020, she turned up looking pale and run down. ‘I’ve got a sore throat and I feel sick,’ she croaked.
Weeks earlier, she’d fainted briefly on a train and I was worried that she was overdoing it. After a weekend of rest and cold remedies, she caught the train back to Manchester. But then, days later, in the early hours of 1 February, my phone rang. It was Emily’s friend Molly, sounding upset and worried. ‘Emily has collapsed at our halls,’ she said.
In a state of shock, without thinking, I hung up and immediately called Emily’s number but found myself speaking to a police officer.
Gently, he explained that paramedics were working on Emily, after she’d stopped breathing following a suspected cardiac arrest. ‘Is she OK?’ I asked, frantic. But he couldn’t give me a straight answer. ‘Just get here as soon as you can,’ he said.
I scrambled out of bed and threw on the first thing I could find.
