Last Sunday – being the dutiful daughter that I am – I requested the pleasure of my mum’s company in London as a special Mother’s Day treat.

Her and I live about four hours apart so our time together is thankfully limited. Don’t get me wrong, we have a nice relationship but it works best at a distance. We can talk for an hour on the phone without nary a raised word but a face-to-face encounter is always somewhat fraught.

My move to Oxford five years ago probably saved both our lives.

Therefore, on Mother’s Day as we each journeyed separately towards the capital, I felt apprehensive. I wanted mum to have a nice day and for myself to remain stress-free but I imagined this impossible and that the day would end in the usual tension followed by the guilty relief of heading away from one another.

Last Sunday we were pulled inextricably towards London by different forms of gravitational pull: her by the motherly love necessary to adore me and myself by daughter duty – which is a bit like stamp duty in that it’s annoyingly necessary, requires overly large payouts but is required if you want to experience the great sense of home it offers.

Also, since I was flying to California the next day I felt as though I had more pressing tasks to be getting on with.

It was with these thoughts whirring around my mind that I set out to Oxford train station for the 10:14 to Paddington.

Of course, since this is England (specifically Oxford) there was a delay due to engineering works and I stood, mumbling curses, for 20 minutes. Finally, I was shunted towards London and Mother.

To my absolute surprise – and barely concealed glee – we spent the entire lunchtime and afternoon positively glorying in one another’s company. I took her for lunch, we laughed and chatted over wine, and then we strolled the vintage markets and stores around Brick Lane.

What helped the whole day was a very simple moment: as I walked towards mum at Liverpool Street station she leapt up and hugged me very tight. She admitted being very excited about her rare trip to London and I suddenly became incredibly endeared to her.

It was such a simple thing for me to pop on a (delayed) train to London but for her she had evidently been looking forward to her trip and our time together all week.

She’d even told friends and chosen her wardrobe carefully. It was her main event of that week and I suddenly gushed with love for that. How could I begrudge her this wonderful day?

And so it was that Mothering Sunday this year for me was not about my mum in the traditional sense. It was about remembering that I am a daughter first and foremost. I am loved to a degree I’m yet to comprehend and it would be incredibly selfish of me to deny or reject this love. So last Sunday I decided to accept it wholeheartedly. You know what? It felt incredibly good. I may have to try it again soon.

Though probably next year is soon enough...