Sarah Payne penned the following heart-rending letter to her stepson, Matthew McLuckie.
Dear Matt:
It's been a year since this nightmare began.
I wish I could forget how that awful day unfolded.
We woke up thinking it was a morning like all others, but we soon noticed that your dinner from the night before was sitting in the fridge.
Tom started calling your number but soon your mum arrived at our house. I will never forget the look on her face, her pale skin, the shock, the anguish. I think [Matthew's brother] Joseph learnt of the news because of my reaction.
"No, no no," I yelled in disbelief.
This always happens to other people. Not to us.
I then went into our bedroom and I had to tell Tom. I was shaking and found it hard to speak but eventually the words came out. My mind still strays to that moment over and over again and I shake my head, as though I can physically remove the trauma. This memory haunts me at night when sleep won't come.
The police waited outside so your mum could share the news with us first. They then came in and sat at our dining table. They kept saying 'It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault'.
We asked if your car had anything to do with the outcome. Did your airbags deploy? If we had bought you a better car, would you have survived? Is it our fault? The police told us that no car could have withstood a collision like that. Later, someone who lives near the collision site told us that the sound of the crash woke her up. She thought there had been an explosion.
At some point Joseph found out from the media what had actually happened. We rang the police to ask if what the media was saying was true. To this day, we still can't comprehend how unlucky you were to be on that road, at that time.
We had to call family - grandparents, aunts and uncles in the UK, your Australian 'step-family'. From Bathurst to Glasgow, the shock, heartache and disbelief began to reverberate around the world.
Friends started to arrive at the house, holding our limp bodies in their arms, wishing they could do something to help. Your mum, dad and Joseph went to the morgue. I couldn't go. The last time I saw you, you had just finished a workout. I didn't want to see you like this. I couldn't see you like this. Tom and your mum held your hand. Your mum begged you to wake up. They said you looked peaceful.
Flowers accumulated. Homemade meals started filling the fridge. This was a godsend because preparing food was the last thing on our minds. Food had lost its taste.
The grief was like nothing any of us had ever experienced. We would wake in the middle of the night with tears streaming down our faces and wet pillows. I had a dream where I was holding you and saying "Is it you? Is it really you?: Once when walking the dogs, we fell to the ground and screamed at the universe for letting this happen to you.
To us.
We spent a lot of time agonising over the 'what ifs', wondering how fate could be so cruel to such a nice and innocent young man.
If only you were staying at your mum's ... If only we hadn't moved to Chifley ... If only it could have been one of us in the car that night. Not you. A thousand 'if onlys'.
[Our family dogs] Poppy and Kaiser were confused. Each time a car arrived at the front of the house, they thought it was you, finally coming home from work. They would rush to the front door. We still think they are waiting for you to come home, Kaiser especially of course. Yes yes, we know he was your favourite.
Planning your funeral became our primary focus. We were all desperate to honour you and celebrate your life. It had to be perfect. We look back and wonder how we managed to find the words and choose the hymns. We had no choice.
It poured on the day of your funeral. Angry, solid rain. Not like the 'dry rain' you explained to me when we were in Glasgow. Was this deluge a message from you? Was it the heavens telling us they too were furious and that you shouldn't be in that coffin?
We couldn't tell what was rain and what were tears on our faces as you were lowered into the earth. As people drove to your wake, an enormous rainbow appeared in the sky; one end over Wanniassa, your mum's house. The other, over our place in Chifley. Another sign? It was a relief when that terrible day was over.
Everywhere we went, Tom had a story to tell about you. We told each other that you lived a wonderful life while you were with us.
I'm not sure when the terrible burden of administration became apparent. There were bungles everywhere we turned.
Your death certificate was issued with the wrong date. There were problems with the payment of funeral benefits. Tom was on a wild goose chase to find the details he needed just to fill out all the forms. The confusion was relentless.
We were handballed from one agency to the next. One guy said to Tom: "But why didn't you just ring the 1800 number?'" as though we should have somehow been experts at knowing what to do when suddenly losing a child in a crime.
Several weeks after the collision, we met with the sergeant in charge of the investigation.
He told us that given all that was happening on Canberra's roads, your death was 'an accident waiting to happen'. We started reading the news more carefully and were catapulted from our comfortable cocoon of naivety. We learned that these kinds of reckless life-endangering events were happening every other day in this so-called 'safe' city.
This was a turning point. We decided that safer roads would be your legacy. Maybe we could turn this terrible tragedy into something positive for the community. [Family friend] Cristina came over and helped us to set up all the social media accounts for ACTNOWFORSAFERROADS.
A psychologist told Tom that taking action after a tragedy is referred to as 'instrumental grief'.
Tom had fire in his belly, fuelled by his grief and anger. He started researching various databases in which he found mistakes. He met with politicians, police, first-responders, people working in the criminal justice system and family members of offenders caught up in its cycle. Everyone was saying the same thing. The system was broken.
As Canberra got to know your dad, I too learnt that he had an unfathomable capacity to analyse and synthesise data and statistics. To dig deeply to unearth the truth.
I joked with him: "I knew you were smart, but I didn't know you were that smart!" I can imagine you cringing at having to admit your dad is so clever!
We soon learnt that it's not always easy to be in the public eye. Not everyone liked what Tom was saying. At first, we hoped to remain apolitical but we soon discovered who was keen to help us, and who would see us as a nuisance or just an angry family seeking revenge.
We had already tried to contact [Chief Minister] Andrew Barr to get help with the evolving enigma that was the Motor Accident Insurance Scheme. From the outset, he palmed us off and then, when we sat in the Assembly to witness the tabling of our petitions, he deliberately turned his back and ignored us. Not only us, but the other families in attendance, with whom we share the unenviable commonality of having lost a child in vehicular crime.
When the media called Andrew Barr out, instead of just apologising for his lack of empathy, he doubled down and attempted to confuse the narrative and undermine everything we stood for. Odious politicking at its finest.
We know that you would be as disgusted as we are at the ACT government's deflection and denial of the issues we've raised. I can imagine you saying "If they have nothing to worry about, why are they so afraid of an independent review? Am I right?"
I can remember Tom and I talking to you about the leadership roles we've had in our careers and how we've learnt that good leaders have the humility to admit when they are wrong.
In this ongoing debate, how can the voices of so many who have assessed the evidence be wrong? How can the government listen to the groundswell of discontent, coming from so many sectors of our community, from experts and people with lived experience, and not accept that there are numerous problems with Canberra's justice system that must be addressed?
The truth can sometimes be inconvenient, but surely, accepting the truth is the first step towards finding solutions.
I don't know how we could have made it through the year without the steadfast support and love from our wonderful families and friends.
With the passing of time, there has always been something to dread. Birthdays, then Christmas loomed like an enemy on the horizon. How could we possibly celebrate Christmas this year? Tom, however, was adamant that Christmas had to happen, as it usually would. We were still alive. We still had Joseph to think about.
A few months later, it was your 21st birthday. Our friends, (new and old), family and some members of the community joined us at the cemetery. All of your dad's teammates from Brindabella Masters came and shared stories of watching you grow up on the football field. We ate all your favourite foods and Annabel and Joseph stood over your grave and chatted. Did you know we were there?
Several weeks ago we had to pack up your bedroom because the new house was finally near completion.
Every item in your room was a treasure. A sign of your passage on Earth. Your last supermarket receipt; of course you bought 9 litres of milk- efficiency always was your modus operandi! Chewing gum wrappers- you got this habit from your dad. Your maths and coding notebooks, written in what looks like a foreign language. The clothes that you had washed and hung on the drying rack before heading to work that cold night. Your whole life from our house was packed into 4 precious plastic tubs.
We've often wondered what you would think about all this fuss. You would absolutely hate that you've become a well-known name in Canberra. However, we also know you had a strong sense of justice. Of right and wrong. You would be absolutely outraged with what has happened. The unfairness of it.
When people talk to us, they usually focus on what was taken from us. Those who knew and loved you, understand that the real tragedy is that a lifetime of wonderful experiences has been stolen from you.
You never got to show off the results of all your hard work in that gym. You didn't get to graduate, travel or live with friends. You didn't embark on your career. You didn't get to spend all that money you proudly saved on a place of your own. You had not fallen in love. You didn't become a father.
You didn't even get to say goodbye.
You would be so proud of your dad, as we all are. But I'm sure, if you could, you would tell him to not let his constant heartache take away all semblance of joy from the rest of his life. You told us yourself that 'what's done is done'. We are all trying to accept what's happened, but I fear what the future might hold as we continue to learn how to navigate life without you.
For us, there will always be a before and after the 20th of May, 2022. We didn't know how good and easy and light life was when you were still here. Smiling for photos used to feel natural. Now when I look at photos, I see strain and heartache in our eyes.
We used to buy flowers to brighten our house and lives. Now flowers remind us of the trauma of those first days after losing you - your mum can't even have them in her house.
Before, we would worry about getting to places on time. Now we worry about driving at night, and we nervously second guess everyone's movements on the road.
After today, we will embark on our second year without you, during which we will continue to find the words, the moments and the space to remember you and celebrate your life.
In your name, we will continue to do everything we possibly can to make our world a safer and fairer place, where the rights of victims are paramount and where sentencing decisions are void of political or personal bias.
Your absence is a presence in itself. A deep and painful presence that sometimes takes our breath away and only eases its hold as we fall asleep. However, it is a presence that we welcome; a constant reminder that you existed, that you were cherished. That you were loved.
We miss you Matt and we hope you are resting peacefully, wherever you are.
Love, Sarah
Dear friends:
Tonight we will light a candle and stop to think of our Matthew. We would love you to do the same, and to share a photo of your candle in the comments below. It would mean the world to us to know that you have Matthew and us in your thoughts on this difficult day.
Thank you.
