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.

Adrenaline kept my body moving even as the heat and stress made me sweat, still wearing my work badge. As I entered the house, I was met by the smell of Lynx and the thought that just a few hours earlier, Peter had left like any normal day. In his room, Fluffy the cat was curled up on his freshly made bed he never made his bed. As I gathered everything the kids might need teddies, clothes, the small things that mattered I’d sit down and cry, then carry on.

Because of my sister’s medical condition, I knew I couldn’t just blurt it out over the phone. I wanted to make sure she had someone with her when I delivered the news.