When Peter passed away, it created a sudden and frightening instability around housing for the children. Their home was a Housing Association property, and Peter had been the sole tenant. As soon as I was able, I contacted the Housing Association to inform them of his death and to ask what options were available. I explained our situation clearly: that my sister Jane was the primary parent, that she wasn’t in Housing Association housing herself, but that she met the criteria and, most importantly, she was now the parent raising the children with my full support.
I had no prior experience with Housing Associations, so I genuinely didn’t realise how hard this fight would be. I thought that under the circumstances the sudden loss, the children’s needs, Jane being their mum and fitting the criteria securing the tenancy would be a compassionate, structured process. I wasn’t prepared for how uncertain, complicated, and stressful it would become.
After we sat down with the kids, it was clear what they wanted: to stay in their home. This wasn’t just a house to them. It was their safe place their rooms, their street, their friends, their routines, the familiar environment that held their memories of Peter. As a homeowner myself, I couldn’t take on the tenancy even if I’d wanted to, and I didn’t need to. My role was to support the children and support Jane.
Jane went to her first meeting with the Housing Officer she went with Bailey and they were told from the start that nothing was guaranteed. They would have to gather a set of documents for a panel to review before deciding whether she could take on the tenancy. Jane met the criteria: she didn’t already have a Housing Association property, she was on disability benefits due to her medical condition (meaning her rent would be covered), and she was the primary parent. But still, we lived with uncertainty.
Despite limited resources, Jane was determined to fight for the house, for their stability, for the life the kids knew. After Peter’s celebration of life, she moved into the house permanently. Before that, she had been visiting, helping with routines, supporting the kids. But now she was here full-time, doing everything required to get a decision. It was our next big battle, and it overshadowed everything else. We couldn’t properly begin to grieve because we didn’t even know if the children would be allowed to stay in the home Peter built for them.
Peter’s belongings were exactly as he left them. We couldn’t change anything or invest in new things the kids needed because we didn’t know if we would be packing everything into storage. I worried constantly about where we’d put Peter’s clothes if the kids weren’t ready to go through them, or whether we’d lose their furniture, their familiar spaces, their sense of home.
During this time, the community around us became our anchor. Over the years, the children had become a part of that neighbourhood. We’d come to know the neighbours well people who helped with mowing the lawn, trimming the bushes, or just keeping an eye out. When I visited regularly with the kids, we built those connections too. I remember Peter joking in the early days, “Why are you talking to the neighbours? Now they’re talking to me I’ve got to go out there and say hello!” But he quickly learned how invaluable those relationships could be. When he needed something jump leads, a tool, something for the kids we knew exactly who we could knock on.
It was a place where the children felt safe. Corey could ride his bike freely. They played with the local kids. It was a genuine community the kind that becomes an extension of family when times get hard.
And when Peter died, that community wrapped around us. They fed the cat in those first chaotic days. They trimmed the gardens and maintained the bushes especially leading up to Peter’s celebration of life making sure everything was presentable because they knew people would be coming to the house. One neighbour in particular, Jim, has been a constant. He’s 82 years old, and still he came over the moment I called him. I will never forget the look in his eyes when he arrived that day. We hugged. I couldn’t cry I was numb but he held the weight with me. Since then, he’s knocked regularly, checked on us, worried about whether we’d be allowed to stay in the house, and done everything in his power to help. He’s mowed lawns, taken out bins, fed the cat, put out water during the heatwave all the little things I forgot while drowning in trauma.
The kids saw his support. They felt the community around them. And it mattered.
But not every moment with the community was easy. A few days after Peter died, I came back to the house to mow the lawn so we could have a picnic outside anything to get the kids some fresh air without forcing them back inside the house too soon. I was trimming a bush with my headphones on when I noticed a car pull up next door. I assumed it had nothing to do with me.
But the neighbour got out and started talking. At first I couldn’t hear him, then he demanded, “What are you doing? What are you doing that for?”
I told him, “What am I doing what for?”
He said, “Why are you doing that? You know the circumstances.”
I said, “Yes, I do.”
Then he said something that hit me like a punch: “I never liked him anyway. He never came and introduced himself.”
I was stunned completely taken aback. And then he added, “You’ll have to leave the house. When are you moving out?”
I said, “He just died. Do you really think the children are going to be kicked out of their home onto the street?”
He replied, “Yes, they do. They’re not old enough to stay on their own.”
I said, “If anything happened to you, do you think your wife would have to leave?”
He said, “Well, she’s on the tenancy.”
I told him, “You don’t know the situation, and you certainly don’t know who I am. I’m appalled by this. Whatever you’re going through, I hope you get help. But this is the children’s home. Show some respect.”
He huffed and puffed, and I remember feeling more sorry for him than angry. My motto has always been: when they go low, you go high. And that’s what I held onto in that moment.
Even with that one negative encounter, the overwhelming majority of the community was nothing but supportive and their kindness helped hold us up during those weeks when everything felt so uncertain.
Through all of it, one thing anchored us: no matter what happened, we would stay together. Jane and the kids would remain together. I would support them every step of the way. Even in grief, even in fear, even in bureaucracy and limbo, we were determined to protect their world as much as we possibly could.