For my dear Violet.

You would've loved my mother. Everyone loved my mother. She was beautiful. There was no doubt my father adored her, and made no secret of it. She adored him, too. Lord, the looks they gave each other, the inappropriate comments, the noise they made when they thought they were home alone...!

Then one day, that fateful day, it all changed.

Life had never been better for our parents. Dad was head of department at college, we were both getting great school grades, my mother? Well, you know Dad's skyscraper? The one that he made his name with? The one that shapes the New York skyline? He named it after her. Everything was perfect.

Until a yellow taxi cab ploughed into her as she was crossing Times Square.

We've never really known much about our mother. We knew she loved us, we knew she and dad were like love-struck teens, we know she would let dad get away with anything, but wouldn't let him name us Luke and Leia. She would even sit and listen to Dad's boring architect lectures, and actually enjoy them! Even know all this, we don't know how Dad proposed, we don't know what they did on their first date, we don't even know how they met.

The funeral was awful. I've never seen Dad cry before. Aunt Lily grabbed us, crying, the minute she saw us, her kids hiding shyly behind Uncle Marshall, red hair stunning against their black clothes, especially the girls'. Uncle Barney hugged and kissed Aunt Robin, but she still cried. Dad kept his arms around us, tears running down his face, as we cried out way through the eulogies.

We were the last ones to leave, and we were exhausted for it when we got home. The first thing we did was go upstairs to change. Dad didn't. We got back down to discover he'd poured himself a large scotch. He was looking better, but still not back to his usual self. He told us he wanted to talk to us in the living room. This was a surprise. Dad's never really had much time for answering questions. That's why we've never really known much. He's always too busy to have any decent conversations; off at the bar with Uncle Barney and Aunt Robin, and Uncle Marshall and Aunt Lily; or marking coursework or planning lessons; or planning dates with my mother. We had days out together - walks round New York with a free architecture lesson throw in, trips to Liberty Island, you name it - but we never got to sit around and talk.

We sat warily on the sofa, whilst he dropped into an armchair opposite us. He licked his lips nervously and I swallowed hard. I couldn't help feeling almost nervous - were we about to get all the answers we'd ever dreamt of?

I could see this would be about my mother. Dad's body-language showed how much it was hurting him, in a way that thinking about my mother had done since... that day. He pulled a face and swallowed hard before raising his glass and having a drink. The cocktail of emotions and hard liquor made his voice almost deep and gravelly, and definitely a little choked as he finally spoke.
"Kids, I'm going to tell you an incredible story, the story of how I met your mother."