My dad, Chris, loved life.

He was determined to live to 100, though to be fair, he only started that obsession once he hit 80.

One day he walked a couple of blocks to my house and rang the doorbell. When I got downstairs he was talking gibberish, and I knew instantly something was wrong. My brother called an ambulance, which arrived within minutes. Doctors suspected a stroke, but after weeks of every scan under the sun we got the real diagnosis: glioblastoma, the most aggressive type of brain tumour.

We were told we'd have three months with him. We got six.

The incredible NHS palliative care team set up his home so he could spend that time there, and I was lucky to spend as much of it with him as I could. He never stopped.

He kept playing tennis twice a week for as long as he possibly could.

In hospital he asked for a newspaper every day, to prove to himself he could still read. Most days he couldn't. One morning I found him laughing hysterically, pointing at the page. It had a photo of Mo Salah, and to Dad, every single word on it read "Mo Salah." We loved watching Liverpool together, and Salah was his favourite player (ours, really).

He dreamed of the Caribbean. We couldn't manage that, so we took him to the Cotswolds instead, and it became one of our most beautiful memories.

We threw our own piña colada party at home: windows wide open, music blasting, (non-alcoholic!) piña coladas all round.

When Dad learned that children get brain tumours too, he was heartbroken. He wanted us to raise money to help other families going through what we went through. That's what this page is for.