I've always loved a good old family knees-up.
We've never needed much of an excuse to have a celebration in our family.
"Cheers!" we shouted in unison, marking my step-sister Claire's 27th birthday.
The sound of clinking glasses and merriment filled the room.
I scanned each beaming face, but stopped at my mum, Lorraine, 39.
She was sitting with her head in her hands, rubbing her temples.
I ignored my younger sister, Katie, 15, moaning that she was not allowed a drink, and sat beside my mum.
"Are you OK?" I asked, concerned.
"It's nothing," she wispered. "Just a bit dizzy."
She hadn't been feeling well for days.
My mum's fiance Dave, 44, strode over and took the wine glass from her hand.
"I'm fine," she insisted. Mum had never liked a fuss.
It was a cold afternoon, 11th November 2006, and as evening drew in, someone suggested we move the party to our local pub.
"You go and have fun," mum said.
Dave reassured me he would keep an eye on mum, and sulking Katie.
Reluctantly, I gave my mum a big hug before chasing after my older sister Terri, who was 21, and 18-year-old brother Andrew.
As the eldest of four children, I'd felt a sense of responsibility from an early age.
Mum and dad had split up when I was eight years old.
I remember nights cuddling my younger brother and sister close as I cried myself to sleep.
But kids are resilient. I got through it.
Mum found happiness with Dave, who became like a second father to me over fourteen years spent under the same roof.
They made a great couple, due to get married the following July, for a joint celebration on my mum's 40th birthday.
But no matter how much I love my mum and Dave, I've always been a daddy's girl.
My dad, Andrew Batterton, 45, nicknamed 'Fatta' since he was a teenager, lived in a nearby flat.
For the past couple of years I'd see him every day, working side-by-side on the packing line in a factory near our home in Widnes, Cheshire.
Sharing the same wicked sense of humour and taste in music, we loved to socialise together. We were best mates.
I rang to invite him to join the fun as we arrived at the pub.
He was on a date with his new girlfriend, Yvonne Carter, 40, and promised to see me the next day.
I hung up, feeling disheartened.
Yvonne seemed nice, but I found it hard to accept anyone dad dated.
Funnily enough, I had already knew her because my brother Andrew's pregnant girlfriend, Nicole, was Yvonne's daughter.
My thoughts were broken as Terri plonked a glass of vodka in front of me.
"Cheer up and get that down you," she ordered, grinning.
I pushed worry to the back of my mind, vowing to make mum see a doctor if her symptoms continued.
Two hours later, 9.30pm, I could barely hear my mobile phone ringtone over the loud din.
It was Katie in a panic.
"Come home quick! Mum's on the floor," she sobbed. "We can't wake her up!"
I sobered-up immediately.
"Mum's collapsed!" I yelled to Terri, as I dropped everything and dashed out of the pub.
Instinctively I rang mum's mobile, it was ringing out. Then I tried dad.
Terri had already called him. He was on his way.
As my feet pounded the pavement, my heart banged hard against my ribcage.
Please be OK, I whispered over and over to myself.
I lunged through the front door to find Katie sobbing in Dave's arms.
Paramedics in green jackets were hunched over my mum, lying slumped on the kitchen floor.
"What's happened?" I cried.
"We don't know," Dave's voice was choked. "She went to get a drink and..."
"They can't revive her," he whimpered.
Katie's cheeks were red and streaked with tears.
I heard the words but they didn't sink in.
Confusion swept over me as I saw mum's lifeless legs stretched out in the kitchen.
A few dizzy spells... that's all. She couldn't be dead.
Friends and neighbours were milling around the living room offering to help.
Frozen, I stared blankly at the sea of worried faces.
I felt too weak to comfort Katie. The aching feeling in the pit of my stomach grew stronger.
Terri and Andrew sank into the sofa in shock.
I turned and saw Dad had arrived. I ran to him and he scooped me into his big strong arms.
Grief overwhelmed me and I couldn't fight away the tears.
Usually a hug from my dad would take all the pain away.
I feared this pain would never fade.
We paced the living room in silence, no-one daring to speak. Hoping to wake from this nightmare.
Minutes became hours as we waited for mum's body to be collected and taken to the mortuary, at 2.30am.
Before she was taken away, the police allowed us each a minute alone with her.
"Goodbye Mum," I whispered, planting a kiss on her cheek. Her skin was cold.
For days I barely slept. The grief was relentless.
Dave seemed to be bearing the loss harder than any of us. Their marriage plans in tatters, his life over.
I busied myself by taking care of the funeral arrangements. A quiet service with only close friends and family.
Dad visited us every day. No words could provide any real comfort but his being there meant everything.
I clung to him more than ever before. He became my rock.
He spoke of moving in with us but didn't want to upset Dave.
The post mortem concluded mum's death was due to "unexplained natural causes".
We may never know exactly why mum died.
The weeks blurred into one another as Christmas approached all too quickly.
Nothing seemed worth celebrating any more.
I strived to put a brave face on, for Katie's sake.
At 15 she was finding coping with losing mum difficult.
Filled with anger at the world, snapping at everyone. I couldn't blame her.
I felt like screaming, too.
Dad spent Christmas Day with us and we managed to smile through the heartache.
But there was a gaping hole where mum should have been.
Dad had split up with Yvonne a few days earlier.
I knew he was upset but selfishly, I was secretly pleased.
Greedy for time spent with him, for the strength he gave me.
At the start of the New Year I decided it was time to get on with my life. Look to the future.
That's what my mum would've wanted for all of us.
Dad was cheerier after having patched things up with Yvonne. It was great to see him so happy.
Days spent in work chuckling with my dad gently lifted my spirits.
He often sent me daft texts and it had become a ritual that he would text me first thing every morning.
On Thursday 11th January no text came. Odd.
When he didn't show up for work I began to worry and sent him a text mid-morning.
Probably sleeping-off a hangover, I thought.
My brow furrowed as I repeatedly checked my phone. He always replied.
During lunchtime, my boss called me into her office. Her face was serious.
As she spoke I could see pity in her eyes.
"The police have called. They believe," she stuttered. "Fatta...your dad... has been murdered."
"No. No! He can't be..." I breathed, shaking my head.
It was his 46th birthday in two days time. We had plans.
In denial, I scrabbled for the mobile phone in my pocket and rang him repeatedly.
"It is not possible to connect your call..."
Ever again.
My heart felt like it had been sliced into a thousand pieces.
Quivering, a colleague drove me to my sister Terri's house.
The police were already there.
Despite my demands for answers, I wished I could block out the details.
Dad had been stabbed three times as he lay asleep in his bed at 4am. Defenceless.
His flatmate heard his screams and dialled 999. The knife had penetrated his liver and left kidney and he died in hospital at 5.54am.
I was thankful he hadn't been totally alone.
Shock, confusion, hurt, anger. So many emotions boiled inside me.
My entire body ached, mourning the loss of another parent.
I had become an orphan in the space of two months.
The next day Terri and I clung to one another as we went to identify his body.
I stared through the glass at his motionless face.
An all-consuming grief overpowered me. My legs buckled and Terri steadied me.
"Why him? Why?" I sobbed, my head buried in her shoulder.
Despite the violence of his death, I swear I could make out the trace of a smile on his lips.
Always smiling, that's how I'll remember my dad.
For days I was a mess. I couldn't eat or sleep.
Endless visits from well-wishers offering condolences.
"Call me if you need anything," said Stephen Mottram, Nicole's dad, offering support.
Stephen Mottram, 40, started to pop in and see us often, especially when baby Demi arrived in February.
So precious. For a few stolen moments I forgot my troubles as my niece's tiny fingers squeezed mine.
Her life had just started.
Stephen Mottram and Yvonne had separated years earlier. I felt a surge of jealousy whenever they visited.
Nicole still had her mum and dad alive.
Grief was tearing me apart. I needed justice.
The police were baffled as to who had taken dad's life in cold blood.
A reconstruction was broadcast on BBC 1's Crimewatch with a #30,000 reward offered.
No apparent motive and a murder weapon had not been found.
Dad's murderer had entered through the bedroom window but taken nothing.
A burglary gone wrong? Revenge? For what? He had no enemies.
It didn't make sense. My dad never crossed anyone.
Over two hundred people attended his funeral. Our entire town was in shock. He was so dearly loved.
As I looked around the crematorium, I noticed Yvonne hadn't come. Too upset.
Weeks turned to months. Still, no-one had come forward with information.
I ploughed all my energy into caring for my family. I had to for mum and dad's sake.
Just when I needed a hug from my dad the most, he wasn't here.
Knowing dad's murderer was roaming the streets was unbearable.
I woke in cold sweats, plagued with dreams of my mum and dad's deaths.
Then, one April evening, I got a call from Andrew.
"Mottram lied in his statement," his voice sounded strained. "He's hiding something. I think he killed dad."
A chill ran through me. I'd cooked tea for him and Nicole the night before.
"Turn him in!" I raged.
Stephen Mottram was arrested on suspicion of murder on 25th April and charged two days later. His DNA was discovered on the window to dad's flat.
I felt sick. I had allowed the traitor into our home. He'd fooled us all.
Bolstered by my anger, I found the courage to attend Warrington Crown Court for the trial. He pleaded guilty.
In court, the defence claimed that Mottram was still madly infatuated with Yvonne and that she was seeing him, after a row with my dad, over Christmas.
When Mottram discovered Yvonne and dad had got back together, jealousy and a cocktail of drugs drove him to commit murder.
The judge dismissed Mottram's claims that he acted on impulse. He said the murder had been 'planned' and 'pre-meditated'. He had entered the flat armed with the knife.
Mottram kept his head lowered, avoiding eye contact with any of us throughout the trial.
I felt cheated. I wanted him to see and feel the anger burning inside me.
On 3rd August 2007 he was sentenced to life imprisonment, serving a minimum of sixteen years and eight months.
Nicole and I have grown much closer since the verdict. We've both lost our dads.
As for Yvonne I don't want to know. I prefer to stay out of her way but I don't blame her for dad's death.
She didn't savagely plunge a knife into my dad while he slept. No-one could have predicted it.
My dad didn't deserve to be killed in such a cowardly way.
The only comfort is that justice has been done.
Nothing will bring my beloved dad back, or my mum. But no-one can take away my memories.
I've had to grow up fast. I tried one counselling session but it wasn't for me.
My parents taught me the strength to overcome all obstacles.
I know now that you have to be thankful for every day you spend with a loved one.
I cherish my sisters and brother.
You never know when it'll be your last moment together.
Your last chance for a celebration.
- As told by Danielle Batterton, 25. Widnes.
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