I lived just round the corner from the local secondary school, and lately, the noise has come back to my streetlads with oversized backpacks, shirts untucked and askew, mothers hurrying along, laughter tumbling over itself, bicycles gliding to the curb to drop off students at the crossroads. For most, its hardly remarkable. For me, its a pounding in the chest. Three years ago, my sonsixth form, sixteenpassed away, and ever since, this time of year weighs heaviest on my heart.
He was sixteen. That evening, hed gone out for dinner with friends, spent a little more time chatting in the park. Ten oclock struck as he crossed the street to head home. I was waiting up, as always. Then a driverdrunk, recklessran through the red light for no reason, didnt slow, didnt stop. My son had no chance to react. When the hospital rang, I felt my body hollow out. I stood there, mute, unable to process the words.
Ive buried my parents. That pain was deep and difficult. But nothing comes close to burying your own child. Its not within the natural order. I was flooded by fury, helplessness, guilta torrent, all at once. Why did I let him go out? Why didnt I text him to come home sooner? Why did God allow this? For months, I argued fiercely with God. I prayed and howled, I complained, said it was unjust, that my boy was taken from me without warning.
For years Ive run a small bookshop. Its how I make ends meet. I sell notebooks, coloured crayons, pens, do photocopies, printouts, phone top-ups; Im a banking agent too, so people come and go constantly. I used to serve the schoolkids cheerfully. Now, every uniform reminds me of his. Every child buying jotters sends me back to buying things for him. Sometimes, Im copying papers and my eyes fill unexpectedly with tears.
The first year after he was gone, I nearly shut the business down. I had no strength to lift the shutters. I forced myself upbecause I had to eat, pay the rent and utilities. More than once I served customers sporting a fake smile, broken inside. Some days, boys would wander in laughing, and I could scarcely keep the tears at bay.
Over time, my anger toward God fadednot because the pain diminished, but because rage was devouring me. My prayers changed. I no longer complain. I beg for strength, for peace. I ask for help living with the vast emptiness that nothing seems able to fill.
Now, as school term starts, I feel my heart clench tight. I dont cry as much anymore, but the pain sits quietly inside me, settled and unmoving. Ive learned to live with it, though it never leaves. You dont erase grief, you learn to breathe beside it.
Each morning, I unlock the bookshop. I serve the students. I watch backpacks pass my door. On the surface, I appear strong, but within, Im still the mother waiting to hear her sons key in the lock at ten in the eveningknowing full well that sound will never come again.
