Bleak Holiday Monday.

Tomorrow is Bank Holiday Monday, the 31st of August.

Six years ago my beloved sixteen year old son left the house in the early hours of the morning, while the family slept.

I went to church, as usual, thinking that he was out for a walk or to get cigarettes; he was a typical teen and didn't always remember to tell me where he was going,although it was unusual for him to be up and about so early.

My husband later called me from the church service to tell me that my son was dead, his body found at the foot of the cliffs, broken and lifeless.

Time stood still for a moment; my heart broke. My life, as it had been, ended. It took just three words. The hardest words that My Man has ever uttered. There is no deeper grief than that felt at the death of your child. No greater loss. A piece of me is missing, gone forever. Torn from me in that moment, leaving a scar that never heals.

I see echoes of him in his younger brother. The way his fingers curl as he dunks his bread in his soup...the cheeky, sideways grin that he gives me when he knows he is 'pushing his luck'. It is at once comforting and heartbreaking.

I mourn him each day. I am haunted by regrets and guilt. I failed him!
I tried. I did all I knew how, but I failed. I will carry this with me until my physical life ends, until then I will remain a shadow of the mother I wanted to be, drifting through life. Merely existing.

Peace be with you, son. I miss you!