There are people who step into your life and, without ceremony or declaration, plant themselves so deeply into your soul that they become part of your very foundation. Rosemary was that for me. 
She called me her second daughter—and she meant it.
From the moment I became best friends with Katie at twelve years old, Rosemary and Roy took me in as one of their own. Not just for sleepovers or to tolerate our teenage antics, but fully. Fiercely. With a love that was unwavering and unconditional. Our friendship group would often gravitate to their home, where we were safe, welcome, and wholly seen.
Rosemary was the heart of that home—and a damn good cook. She was a matriarch in every sacred sense of the word. She wrapped her family—and all those she chose as family—in care, wisdom, and the kind of comfort you feel in your bones. I still remember breakfasts in bed, Nintendo weekends where no one judged us for doing absolutely nothing, the loud chaos of our teen parties, the way she made space for us to be young and chaotic and real. She didn’t just tolerate our mess—she embraced it. With grace. With patience. With an eye roll and a smirk and a deep understanding that life is messy, and so were we.
Over the years, she and Roy took me on interstate family vacations. Rosemary taught me how to cook, Roy taught me how to drive. On more than one occasion they came to my rescue. We'd laugh at the irony that when Katie moved out, I moved in.
And amidst all that giving, Rosemary lived with chronic illness—quietly, fiercely, without ever letting it define her. Rosemary knew how to enjoy life, often with a good bottle of wine and some fancy cheese platters.
When my babies came along, she became a bonus grandmother to my children, without question, without needing to be asked. It was just that I’d truly been planted as part of their family.
Katie and I often reflected that Rosemary and Roy’s marriage felt like a guidebook on what a healthy relationship looks like.
Steadfast, full of laughter, and deeply rooted in mutual respect.
They supported each other through life’s curveballs, weathered the grumpy moments with humour, and always found their way back to each other.
Rosemary would occasionally banter, with that signature twinkle in her eye, about how she’d had to dump him in the early days—just so he’d realise what he had.
And he truly did. Roy adored her, and it showed in all the ways that matter most—in the way they moved through life as a team, in the affection woven into everyday moments, and in the joy they shared simply having fun together.
And now, with Roy holding space for her in these final days—with that same unwavering tenderness—it’s impossible not to feel the depth of his grief.
The ache of a life built side by side, now slowly letting go.
His love has always been a quiet strength.
And even now, in sorrow, it continues to shine.
And now, in her final hours, I find myself thinking of her as a tall tree, rooted in the deepest kind of love. The kind of tree that bears the weight of storms and still reaches toward the light.
Rosemary was never just someone else’s mom. She was one of my greatest gifts. And though she is nearing her journey’s end, her roots are deep in us now—in Katie, in her granddaughter, in me, in my children, in every person she mothered with her love.
May her path be soft and surrounded by light. May she feel the love she gave reflected back a thousandfold.
And may she know: we will carry her with us, always.
—
With all my love,
Kristy
(Artwork: "Rose Wrapped Tree – A Tribute to Rosemary")