Dear Mark Rutte,

I just don't really know where to start. May 13. Eleven days ago. I immediately think of the last press conference. That was last Tuesday: May 19. Your mother passed away six days before that. I think of your pleasant chat with Jaïr Ferwerda for BEAU where you mentioned that your hair appointment was scheduled for Saturday, May 16. Between that conversation and that hair appointment, your mother passed away. While you were standing there talking about how we are going to organize our country in the coming weeks, while you were getting your graying temples touched up, this great sorrow came to you.

You were there for us during this period. You guide us through a difficult and uncertain time. My daughters and I look forward to the press conferences. To what you say, to how you say it, to what you have decided. You are the leader who cannot fall, who cannot collapse like Minister Bruins. You kept your shoulders straight and even though your exuberant laugh is also in quarantine during this period, you remained cheerful.

Now I think of you. How long had you not hugged your mother before she passed away? Did you also wave occasionally under her balcony? Did you also receive messages from the caring staff of her home about how she was doing? Were you able to say goodbye or did you not dare to because of the fear of getting infected (because if someone cannot fall, it is you) or worse: unintentionally infecting someone from her care home.

I think of your special mother. The young sister of your father's first wife who died in a Japanese camp whom your father fell in love with when he returned to the Netherlands. She also took care of her sister's children while they also had children together. Among whom you.

Your mother who ironed your shirts for so long, who undoubtedly always looked at you with pride and admiration.

I hope you played a beautiful piano piece during her service. And that there is someone who can hold you, because god, how much you will need that.