When a child loses a parent, their world doesn’t just change it collapses. Everything solid becomes shaky, and everything familiar suddenly feels unfamiliar. What I never expected was the additional trauma that comes after: the threat of losing their home, the financial shift, the change in family dynamics all stacked on top of grief that was already unbearable. Everyone is just focused on the loss, but the reality is grieving is a luxury that many people can't afford.
After Peter died, this was the reality the kids faced.
In fact, one of their first questions through their tears and panic was:
“Where will we live? I don’t want to move.”
Imagine that.
Imagine being so young, losing your dad, and immediately having to worry about losing your home too.
Their grief was already overwhelming, and then they heard the words no grieving child should ever have to hear:
“There are no guarantees you can stay in your home." But I promised I would do everything in my power.
In that moment, they weren’t just grieving their dad — they were bracing for their next trauma.
And truthfully, so was I.
Children Feel Everything
Grieving children absorb tension like sponges.
They feel every pause in your voice, every quiet conversation, every hesitation.
When the possibility of losing their home came into the conversation, they felt it deeply.
They started preparing for another hit as if loss was now something they expected. I could see it in their eyes, in the questions they asked at bedtime, in the way they held onto familiar routines and objects like anchors.
They were trying to understand fear layered on top of grief.
No child should ever have to stand there waiting for the next painful thing to happen.
And yet, that’s exactly where they were.
A System Led by Procedure, Not People
One of the hardest parts of this journey was realising how different emotional reality is from administrative reality.
The system surrounding us wasn’t built around compassion it was built around:
criteria
forms
documentation
panels
policy language
There was never a question of whether the kids should be housed.
Everyone said they would “never be left homeless.”
But that wasn’t the point.
It wasn’t about having a home it was about keeping their home.
The one filled with their routines, their memories of Peter, their sense of safety.
The one place that still felt like him.
Yes, technically we had “options” but they were meaningless.
The children would always have had a roof over their heads.
But that wasn’t what they needed.
They needed stability.
They needed familiarity.
They needed their bedrooms, their street, their friends, their environment the things that help grieving children stay grounded.
They needed, and deserved, their own home.
But in the eyes of the process, children become:
a name on a file
a case reference
a set of eligibility criteria
Not grieving children.
Not humans in crisis.
Not kids who had just lost their dad.
I even sent an email to the Housing Association describing everything their wishes, our circumstances and I attached a picture of the kids with Peter. I hoped that if they saw their faces, it might remind someone that these weren’t just “dependants” on a document. These were real children who had already lost enough.
Living in Limbo
The uncertainty froze everything.
We were stuck in a limbo where we couldn’t commit to anything that might support their healing:
clubs
activities
support groups
local services
even small changes in the home
We didn’t know if we’d be allowed to stay.
We didn’t know if everything familiar would be taken from them.
We didn’t know where we would be in a month, or two.
Grieving children need consistency. They need things to look forward to. They need small steps in the right direction.
But limbo stole those steps.
It stole time.
It stole choices.
It stole emotional safety.
The Mental Health Fallout
For grieving children, a home isn’t just a structure it’s emotional protection.
The fear of losing it can cause:
chronic anxiety
disrupted sleep
fear of future losses
behavioural changes
emotional withdrawal
mistrust in the adults and systems meant to help
The kids needed their home to be the one thing that didn’t change when everything else fell apart.
The Weight I Carried Quietly
As adults, we carried this responsibility heavily.
I tried not to let the kids feel my fear, but it sat with me constantly.
I’d lie awake asking myself:
Why do grieving children have to face a second trauma?
We’re doing everything to keep them on track but how do I recreate the feeling of their home somewhere else?
Why aren’t systems built with compassion at their centre?
How can a panel have so much power over a child’s stability?
What does this say about the world we’re raising them in?
The worry stayed with me still does.
Not because I ever doubted the children’s right to a home.
But because the system didn’t seem to see their worth in the first place.
And that, more than anything, broke my heart.