Living just down the road from the local secondary school, Ive begun to notice the everyday bustle returning to our streetteenagers with oversized backpacks, shirts partly untucked, laughter drifting through the air, mothers hurrying along, bikes dropping pupils at the corner. For most, its nothing out of the ordinary. For me, its a punch to the chest.
Three years ago, my son, who was in Year Eleven, passed away, and ever since, the beginning of the school year is the hardest time for me. My boy was sixteen. That evening, hed gone out for dinner with friends, then lingered a bit longer at the park. It was ten oclock when he was crossing the road, on his way home. I waited up for him, like I always did. Then, a reckless, drunk driver sped through a red light. Didnt slow, didnt stop. My son barely had time to react. When the hospital called, it felt like my whole body emptied out. I just stood there, numb, unable to comprehend what was being said.
Ive lost both my parents. That pain was deep and heavy, but nothing compares to burying your own child. Its against the natural order. I was overwhelmed by anger, powerlessness, guiltall at once. I questioned why I let him go out, why I didnt text him to come home sooner, why God would allow this. For months, I argued with God. I prayed and wept, complained bitterly, insisted it wasnt fair, that it was stolen from me without warning.
For many years, Ive had a stationary shopmy livelihood. I sell exercise books, coloured pencils, pens, make copies, printouts, top-ups, and I also serve as a banking agent, so people are in and out all day. I used to enjoy helping the students. Now, every school uniform reminds me of his. Every child buying notebooks brings back memories of the ones I bought for him. Sometimes, Im making copies and suddenly my eyes fill with tears.
That first year after he died, I nearly closed the business. I couldnt summon the strength to pull up the shutters. I forced myself to get up, because I had to eat, pay rent and bills. Often, I served customers with a fake smile and a shattered heart. On days when groups of laughing boys walked in, I could barely hold myself together.
Over time, my anger at God fadednot because the pain went away, but because I learned that the rage only sickened me. My prayers changed. I no longer complain. Instead, I ask for strength, for peace. I ask for help to live with this emptiness, which nothing will ever fill.
When I see the start of term these days, my heart contracts. I dont cry as I once did, but the pain is still therequiet, settled. Ive learned to live alongside it, though it never leaves. You learn to breathe around the pain, not erase it.
Each morning, I open my shop, serve the students, and watch the backpacks passing by my door. Although on the outside I seem strong, inside Im still the mother waiting to hear her sons key in the lock at ten oclock though I know that will never happen again.
