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There used to be a time when I would lament that I never wanted to turn into my mother. During my teen years she had her own things to deal with which made her less than pleasant to be around. She was no fun, she was cranky, and she wasn't the kind of mum that baked cookies or let me have playdough. No, I'd think, I'm not going to be like her. And I wasn't.

For years we never really spoke and it wasn't until my late twenties that I connected with her. We had both become more ourselves and surprisingly, more like each other. Our expectations of what a daughter was and what a mum was had been let go. Instead, we just looked at each other and realised we could giggle at everything for hours, liked taking long drives looking at antiques and wineries, we both noticed details of everything and were both overwhelmed by beauty and colour. Most of all, we discovered we both enjoyed a bit of fancy and really loved life despite all the curve balls we'd been thrown over the years. We were both eternally hopefully.

Out on the town people would always comment on how much we looked alike, especially our smiles. Which is perhaps why I like this photo; we both have the same smile that says "uh, we hate taking our picture but we'll fake it because it's raining really hard and we want it over with."

Our birthdays are just two days apart, which perhaps explains why we're both quirky little things and in a a few months when I'm celebrating mine, I'll think of her and what I've learned from her. And smile. Just a genuine one this time.