I live just a street away from a local high school, and recently, the noise has returned to our road—boys with large backpacks, untucked shirts, laughter, hurried mums, bicycles dropping students off at the corner. For most people, this is just everyday life. For me, it hits straight in the chest. Three years ago, my son, then in Year 11, passed away, and since then, this season is the hardest for me.

I live just off a side street from a secondary school, and lately, the noise outside has crept back over the pavementboys with oversized backpacks, half-unbuttoned shirts, laughter echoing, rushed mums, bikes left leaning at the corner as kids hop off. For most people, this is just normal life. For me, its like a punch to the chest. Three years ago, my son, who was in Year 11, passed away, and ever since, this time of year is the hardest for me.

My boy was sixteen. That evening hed gone out for dinner with his friends, then stayed a bit longer in the park. It was ten oclock at night when he was crossing the road to come home. I was waiting up for him, as I always did. A driver, drunk and reckless, sped through a red light. Didnt slow down, didnt stop. My son had no chance to react. When the hospital rang me, I felt like my whole body emptied out. I just stood there, numb, unable to process what they were saying.

Ive lost my parents before. That pain was fiercesad and heavy. But theres nothing that compares to burying your child. It goes against the order of life. I felt anger, helplessness, guilteverything crashing together. Why did I let him go out, why hadnt I texted him to come home early, why had God allowed this? For months, I fought with God. I prayed and cried, complained and pleaded, kept saying it wasnt fair, that hed been taken from me without warning.

Ive run my stationery shop for yearsits how I make a living. I sell notepads, colouring pencils, pens; I do photocopies, print outs, top-ups. I also work as a banking agent, so people are in and out all day. I used to enjoy serving the school kids. Now every school uniform reminds me of his. Every child buying notebooks takes me back to the ones I bought for him. Sometimes Im making a copy, and I feel tears welling in my eyes out of nowhere.

The first year after he was gone, I nearly closed the shop. I couldnt face lifting the shutter. I forced myself out of bed, just because I had to pay my rent and bills, keep food on the table. So many times, I served customers with a fake smile and a breaking heart. There were days when laughing lads would come in, and I was barely holding back tears.

With time, I stopped being so angry at God. Not because the pain went away, but because I realised the anger was making me ill. My prayers have changed. I dont complain now. I ask for strength, a bit of peace. I ask for help to live with this emptiness nobody can fill.

These days, when I see the start of the school year, I feel my heart shrink. I dont cry like before, but the pain is still therequiet, settled. Ive learnt to live alongside it, but it never leaves. You learn to breathe around the pain, not erase it.

Every morning, I open my shop. I serve the students. I watch the backpacks pass my doorway. And even though I look strong on the outside, inside Im still that mum waiting to hear her sons key turn in the door at ten oclock even though I know thats something that will never happen again.