Life didn’t feel dramatic.It felt lived-in.Messy with grief and trauma.Ordinary in the way days are when you’re just surviving them.Thursday 12th June began like so many others early starts, routines, responsibilities pulling us all in different directions. Jane headed off by bus to my grandparents house to clean and sort some paperwork. I had a full day of work ahead. Corey had school. Life moving forward whether we were ready or not.The heat was relentless. The kind that sits on your skin and drains you quietly, making everything feel heavier than it should. As we drove, I said out loud that my grandad who had been declining for months would probably go quietly in his sleep. Jane had always struggled with death. It frightened her in a way she couldn’t ever explain.I said my usual prayer as we set off. The one I’d said every morning since Peter had left the house and never come back.We dropped Corey off, turned the music up loud, and danced all the way to the bus stop. Music was how we survived in good times and in the hardest ones. Life hadn’t been kind lately, but with my sister beside me, I believed we could handle anything.When she came home that evening, she’d been out for nearly twelve hours. I opened the door and there she was smiling, arms full of bags, dripping with sweat from the walk home. She’d even carried back a clothes rail from my grandma’s, balanced across her back with bags hanging from it. The weight of it all was ridiculous.She told me she’d had a funny turn getting off the bus. Her vision had gone black. She thought she was going to pass out. She said it had scared her. She repeated it and that’s when I knew she meant it. She said she’d felt vulnerable.I asked why she hadn’t called me.She said she was okay.We blamed the heat. Dehydration. She’d left her water behind. I suggested salty water and a cold shower. We didn’t know not yet that this moment would haunt me forever.She laid everything out she’d brought home, showing the kids piece by piece. Little things chosen with care. Bits for Corey’s sleepover the next day including the biggest tub of popcorn seeds I had ever seen. Like Peter she didn’t do things by half. A box of air-fryer donuts one for each of the kids. This one made me think of you. This one will make you smile.She was tired but happy to be moving with purpose. After huffing and puffing with the heat, she wrapped the present for the party and packed the overnight bag. Finally settling after a long.

I was 26 when my sister Jane and Peter told us they were expecting their first child together. I was so excited to be an auntie again. Lou was my world, and I couldn’t wait to meet my new niece or nephew. I would imagine what they might look like, who they might be, what kind of little personality they’d have.

By June, we were in the middle of a heatwave the kind of heat you couldn’t escape. The kind that sits on you and doesn’t move. It had been an unusually hot spring.

Bereavement or trauma does not pause for exams.It does not arrive neatly outside term time.It does not give notice.It does not respect timetables or policies.And yet when it arrives suddenly and inside the school environment young people and families are often expected to carry on as though nothing has changed.I bet you are shocked to hear that. I know I was.

After notifying the housing association of Peter’s death on 31st March 2025, I was told that someone would be in contact. Apart from reassuring the kids that I would do everything in my power to support my sister in fighting to stay in their home, I made no promises. I was careful but honest as there were no guarantees, but I was clear that we would not give up.

We continued to support one another as a family in every way we could after Peter died. Hayley Peter's sister adjusted her work schedule so that once a week she could collect Corey from school and Bailey from home (something I’ll cover in another blog). That support meant everything to us, but more importantly, it allowed the kids to feel closer to Peter and to strengthen their relationship.

Over the following weeks, whilst continuing with work, school, managing a life-threatening condition, and adjusting to new surroundings, we slowly began to settle into our new dynamics.

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. 

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. 

He lived like a spark that refused to go out,A whirlwind of laughter, of noise, and of shout.Louder than life, louder than sense,A walking storm with no self-defence.

I always knew I was strong, but getting through the process of creating Peter's farewell showed me a different kind of strength the quiet, steady kind that comes from love and family, even in the darkest moments. I never imagined that my camera roll would even hold pictures like the image I have used for this blog not in my worst nightmares. It is moments like this that my brain processes that this is even real.

In the first few weeks, everything felt unreal like I was moving through a haze that didn’t quite belong to me. But even in all that confusion, I knew one thing for certain: the kids needed stability. They needed something solid to hold onto when everything else had collapsed. And a routine was the only place I could start.