I live just a street away from a high school, and lately the familiar sounds have returned—boys with oversized backpacks and unbuttoned shirts, laughter, busy mums, bikes dropping off students at the corner. For many, it’s just everyday life. For me, it feels like a blow to the chest. Three years ago, my son, who was in Year 10, passed away, and ever since, this season has been the hardest for me.

Living just around the corner from a secondary school, I’ve noticed the familiar bustle return to the street once again latelyboys with oversized backpacks, shirts untucked, laughter ringing out, mums hurrying along, bikes dropping students off at the corner. For most, its ordinary, everyday life. For me, it feels like a blow to the chest. Three years ago, my son, who was in Year 11, passed away, and since then, this time of year is the most difficult for me.

My son was sixteen. That evening, he’d gone out for dinner with friends, then stayed a bit longer in the park. At 10 oclock, he was crossing the road to make his way 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 son didnt even have time to react. When the hospital rang, I felt my body drain of feelingI stood frozen, unable to comprehend what they were telling me.

I have lost my parents. That pain was immensedeep, overwhelming. But nothing compares to burying your own child. It isnt the natural order of things. I felt anger, helplessness, guilteverything all at once. I kept asking myself why I let him go out, why I didnt text him to come home sooner, why God allowed this. For months, I wrestled with God, praying and crying, complaining that it wasnt fair, that Hed taken my son from me without warning.

For years, I have run a little bookshop. Its how I make a living. I sell notebooks, coloured pencils, pens, make photocopies, print documents, reload Oyster cards, and I also work as a banking agent, so people are in and out all day. I used to serve the students with delight. Now, every school uniform reminds me of his. Every child who buys a notebook brings back memories of the ones I bought for him. Sometimes, while making photocopies, I suddenly find my eyes brimming with tears.

The 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 and bills. Often, I served customers with an artificial smile and a broken heart. There were days when laughing boys would come in and I could barely keep from crying.

Over time, I stopped being so angry at Godnot because the pain went away, but because I realised that anger was destroying me. My prayers have changed. I dont complain anymore. Now, I ask for strength, for peace. I ask for help to live with this emptiness that nothing can fill.

These days, watching the start of the school year, I feel my heart tighten. I dont cry as much as before, but the pain remainsquiet, settled. I’ve learnt to live with it, though it never truly leaves. One learns to breathe around it, not to erase it.

Every morning, I open my bookshop, serve the students, watch their backpacks pass by my door. And though I may appear strong from the outside, inside, Im still the mother waiting to hear her sons key in the door at ten oclockthough I know it will never happen again.