Living just round the corner from the local secondary school, this time of year brings a familiar bustle back to the street boys lugging heavy backpacks, shirts untucked, laughter echoing, hurried mothers, bicycles leaning against the kerb as students are dropped off. For most people, its just another morning. For me, its a blow to the chest. Three years ago, my son, then in Year 11, passed away, and since then, the start of the school term is the hardest time for me.
My boy was sixteen. That night he went out for dinner with friends, stayed a bit later in the park. At ten, he was crossing the road to come home. I was waiting up for him, as always. A driver, drunk and reckless, sped through a red light. Didnt slow down, didnt stop. My son barely had time to react. When the hospital rang, I felt as though my body had emptied out. I stood in silence, unable to grasp what they were telling me.
I have lost my parents; that pain was fierce, sad, heavy. But nothing compares to burying your own child. Its not how life is meant to go. I felt anger, helplessness, guilt all at once. I asked myself why I let him go out, why I didnt text him to come home earlier, why God allowed this. For months, I argued with God. I prayed and cried and complained that it wasnt fair, that He took him away without warning.
Ive run a small stationery shop for years. Its my livelihood. I sell notebooks, coloured pencils, pens, make photocopies and printouts, handle top-ups, and Im also a bank agent, so people are in and out all day. I used to serve the students with joy. Now every school uniform reminds me of his. Each child buying notebooks takes me back to those I used to buy for him. Sometimes, as I make copies, my eyes fill with tears without warning.
That first year after he died, I nearly closed the shop. I couldnt find the strength to lift the shutters. I forced myself to get up because I had to eat, pay rent, cover bills. Many times I served customers with a forced smile and a shattered heart. There were days when groups of boys came in, laughing, and I barely held back my tears.
With time, I stopped being so angry with God. Not because the pain vanished, but because the anger made me ill. My prayers have changed. I dont complain anymore. I pray for strength, for peace. I ask for help to live with this emptiness that nothing fills.
Now, when I watch the new school year begin, my heart still tenses. I dont cry as much, but the ache remains quiet, settled. Ive learnt to live with it; it never really goes. You learn to breathe around the pain, not erase it.
Each morning, I open my shop. I serve the students. I watch the backpacks heading past my door. And while I may seem strong on the outside, inside I am still that father waiting to hear his sons key turn in the door at ten oclock even though I know it will never happen again.
