I live just a street away from the local secondary school, and lately the noise has returned lively boys with oversized backpacks, untucked shirts, laughter, flustered mothers, bicycles stopping at the corner to drop off pupils. For most people, it’s the usual start to term. For me, its a heavy blow to the chest. Three years ago, my son, who was in Year 11, died. Ever since, this time of year has been the hardest for me.
My son was sixteen. That evening, hed gone out for dinner with friends and spent a bit longer in the park afterwards. It was ten at night when he was crossing the street to come home. I was waiting up for him, as I always did. A reckless, drunk driver sped through a red light. Didnt slow down, didnt stop. My boy had no time to react. When I got the phone call from the hospital, I felt myself drain out, standing numb as though the words made no sense.
Id lost my parents. That was a piercing sadness, a heavy grief. But nothing compares to burying your own child. It isnt the natural order of things. I felt anger, helplessness, guilt all at once. I wondered why I let him go out, why I didnt text to tell him to come home earlier, why God permitted it. For months, I argued with God. I prayed and cried, complained, said it wasnt fair and Id been robbed without warning.
Ive run a bookshop for years. Its my livelihood. I sell notebooks, coloured pencils, pens, make copies and printouts, top up phones, and also act as a banking agent, so people come and go all day. I used to serve students happily. Now every school uniform reminds me of his. Every child buying notebooks takes me back to the sets I used to buy for him. Sometimes Im making a copy and suddenly my eyes fill with tears.
The first year after he died, I almost shut down the shop. I barely had the strength to lift the shutters. I forced myself to get up because the rent, the bills had to be paid and food needed buying. Many times I served customers with a fake smile and a heart in pieces. There were days when laughing boys came in, and I could barely hold back my tears.
With time, I stopped being so angry at God. Not because the pain faded, but because I realised anger was eating me from inside. Now my prayers are different. I dont complain. I ask for strength, for calm. I ask for help to live with the emptiness that nothing can fill.
These days, when I see the start of school term, my heart tightens. I dont cry as much as before, but the ache is still there silent and settled. Ive learned to live with it, but it never fully leaves. You learn to breathe around the pain, not erase it.
Every morning I open my bookshop. I serve the students. I watch the backpacks pass by my door. And though I look strong from the outside, inside I am still that father waiting to hear his sons key at ten oclock at night knowing that, now, it will never happen again.
