I try not to remember the day Stephen died. Even 30 years on, the pain of losing your firstborn never goes away. I remember watching him leave the house that morning for the last time and turn down the alleyway up to the main road where he used to catch the bus. I remember the neighbour banging on the door telling us Stephen had been attacked by a group of boys.
Later in the hospital, when the doctors told me Stephen had died, I asked to go and see him, but they said he needed cleaning up first. I remember going into the room and looking at him but I don’t know what I did, how I felt, or even if I touched him. The next morning, I woke up at home thinking it was all a bad dream. I went into his bedroom and saw his bed hadn’t been slept in – that’s when I realised it was real.
