25 tcf.org.uk He loved snorkelling and we did that too, visiting lovely caves on a boat trip. Both times when we arrived at the caves, ‘his’ song was playing on the boat, Journey’s “Don’t stop Believing”. Joshua loved that song and had sung it at primary school. We played it at his funeral service. I guess I could have taken that as a sign that he was somehow with us. Instead, I took it as further punishment for having a good time without him. Another day we went to an inflatable aqua park down at the beach. Grace and the girls had lots of fun, and I lay on the beach watching, wishing so much that he could be there, when suddenly I thought I saw him! He was laughing and jumping about, having a great time and I silently wept as I watched. Of course, it wasn’t really Joshua, just a little boy with similar height, build, hair colour but for a moment, just a short moment before reality set in, he was there. My heart broke again. One evening, we were sitting with a group of ladies we had met round the pool. They were a group of Mums on a girls’ holiday without their children. We chatted about how they all knew each other and their annual trips abroad without kids. They were friendly and chatty and clearly having a good time. They already knew Grace was my daughter. One of the mums turned to me and I could see the question forming on her lips. I could see it coming like a highspeed train heading straight for me. I broke eye contact, but there was no lever to pull, no way to derail this conversation, no way to stop what was coming. “How many children do you have?” And CRASH! I felt it physically, a punch to gut, forceful enough to knock the wind out of me. My lungs felt like they were going to collapse. Breathe, just breathe. A pause. Other mums turned to look, to hear the response. Suddenly it seemed so quiet. Could they all hear my heart beating? Surely they must, it was so loud. “Two. Grace is 14 and Joshua is 12. But sadly, he died last year”. And there it was. I’d said it. For the first time. On a beautiful summer’s night, on a holiday where people had come to escape their own stresses and get away from it all. I had dropped the bomb. The look of shock rippled around the group. There were murmurs of sympathy, a pat on the arm, gasps, expressions of condolence. I wondered if there was possibly a prickle of resentment, that a perfectly pleasant evening had been hijacked by the horror of child loss. They were all Mums, all saying ‘I can’t imagine’ but at the same time, imagining. Every mother’s worst nightmare was laid bare in front of them. Maybe that was all in my own imagination but that’s how I felt. I again felt so ‘other’. So different. That I don’t belong here anymore. That there’s no place for me in this world. That’s a feeling that I’ve felt many times since Joshua died. I withdrew to leave them chatting and turned away, tears streaming down my face. My beautiful girl came and hugged me, saying nothing but understanding everything. My wonderful friend looked over. I could see the concern on her face. I can’t honestly remember what happened next or what we talked about, I only remember how it felt and the pain of having to say ‘he died’. My precious baby boy, so full of fun, energy and nonsense. Since then, I’ve been asked this a few times: at the hairdressers, at the beauticians, by a waiter in a restaurant. And each time, I say “two, a girl and a boy”. Sometimes that’s all that needed. It’s enough to say that and then change the subject, ask them a question instead. If more questions are asked, I decide how much I want to share but if I am never going to see the enquirers again, they don’t really need to know. It’s enough that I know. He is mine and I am his and that won’t ever change. My baby, my angel, my little man, loved and remembered every day. Forever missed, forever 12. COMPASSION | FEATURE - HOW MANY CHILDREN DO YOU HAVE?
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