**15th November**
I watched as Catherine sorted through old things in her son’s room, her fingers brushing dust from forgotten corners. Behind a pile of well-loved books, she found a faded postcard—yellowed with time. In a child’s careful handwriting, it read: *”Mum, you mean the world to me.”* She pressed it to her chest, her breath catching as grief, sharp and sudden, twisted inside her. Leaning against the cool wallpaper, she slid to the floor, tears spilling like a river breaching its banks. The sorrow she’d locked away seven years ago dragged her under once more.
Thomas had been gone seven years. Only now did she dare touch his things, each one a ghost of the boy she’d lost. That postcard, so simple, tore her apart. She wanted to scream, to let the burning ache inside her spill out. Memories flashed—Thomas, just fifteen, grinning at her from the doorway.
*”I’ll never see you grow up,”* she whispered, gaze drifting over his room. His favourite novels still lined the shelves, his old mobile and schoolbooks scattered on the desk. As if he’d only stepped out and would stroll back in any moment.
Then came the memory of *that* day. Thomas had gone hiking in the Lake District with his mates. A week passed quietly—until dawn broke, and Catherine woke with a dread she couldn’t shake. The silence in the house felt heavy, wrong. She grabbed her phone.
*”I’ll just call him,”* she muttered, dialling his number. But the line rang and rang. By noon, frantic calls to his friends confirmed the worst: Thomas had fallen from a ridge at sunrise. No one knew why he’d wandered off alone. By the time they heard his shout, it was too late.
*”How am I supposed to live without you?”* Her voice cracked in the empty room. *”What’s left for me?”*
The funeral came and went. She and her husband returned to a house that felt hollow, as if the warmth had died with Thomas. Bit by bit, the silence between them grew unbearable. One evening, he packed his bags. *”There’s nothing keeping me here anymore,”* he said.
*”Nor me,”* she echoed, watching him leave. The ground vanished beneath her then, swallowing her into darkness. No matter how she clawed for footing, there was nothing left. Part of her died that day. She tried to move on—dates, distractions—but the emptiness never faded.
Today, she’d lost her job. Rent was due soon, and savings wouldn’t cover it. She unfolded the postcard again, tears splashing onto the worn paper. For the first time, she thought of ending it all. Fear never came—just exhaustion, heavy and dull.
*”Live for me, Mum.”* Thomas’s voice rang clear, so real she flinched.
*”How?”* she choked out, scanning the room. *”I’m alone.”*
*”You’re not. I’m here,”* the voice whispered. *”It hurts, seeing you like this. If you give up, I’ll never rest. Let me go. Live—pray for me. If you find joy, I’ll find peace. But if you suffer, so will I. Live for me. For the ones who still need you.”*
*”Who?”* she pleaded. Silence answered. The room spun, darkness swallowing her—until sunlight warmed her face, the postcard still clutched tight. Peace, faint but real, settled over her.
That afternoon, she packed Thomas’s things. Each item was a quiet goodbye. She donated them to neighbours with teenage boys, the weight in her chest lighter somehow. At the window, autumn air filled her lungs—wet leaves and crisp cold.
The next day, she visited the cemetery. Rain misted the air, seeping into her coat. Kneeling at his grave, she pressed her palm to the earth.
*”I’ll try,”* she promised.
And for the first time in years, she meant it.
**—A grief undoes you only if you let it. Life never stops demanding you live, even when you’re certain you can’t.**