I lost my son, Michael, 26 years ago.

And if there is one thing I have learned during all this time, it is this: grief does not end. It changes shape. It changes weight. But it never truly leaves. It is like a backpack we carry for the rest of our lives.

In the early days, there were people around me. They called. They visited. They wanted to help, to find the right words, to ease my pain somehow.

But very quickly, I felt something else: expectation.

The expectation that I would cope. The expectation that I would be strong. The expectation that I would start living again.

As if, despite the enormity of what had just happened, there was already supposed to be a path back to normality.

I did not need anyone to explain how to move forward. I had just lost my child. I barely knew how to breathe.

So, little by little, I stopped talking about it.

Not because the pain was fading, but because I no longer wanted to see pity in other people’s eyes. I no longer wanted to feel their discomfort, their helplessness, or their unease in the face of a pain they could not fix.

It was easier to keep my suffering to myself.

So I carried my grief in silence. Not because it weighed any less, but because some wounds are too deep to explain. And because, after a while, I realised that while others were waiting for me to get better, I was only beginning to understand that nothing would ever be the same again.

I felt it in the little things too. A hesitation before asking how I was. A kind but weary look that seemed to say, “Surely you’re doing better by now?” Comments that were sometimes well-meaning, sometimes awkward: “Life goes on.” “You have to move forward.” “It’s been a long time now.”

What I wish someone had told me back then is this: there is nothing wrong with you if you are not “better” after a few weeks, a few months, or even a few years.

The death of a child has no timetable.

Other people may eventually close that chapter. We never do.

And among bereaved parents, there is no right way to grieve. No correct timeline. No universal path. Every parent carries their loss differently. Every journey is unique.

For me, I was fortunate enough to have two more children after Michael. I say fortunate because I know that is not everyone’s story. Every bereaved parent walks a different road.

But even that came with its own weight: the guilt of feeling joy again. The guilt of loving again. The strange feeling that happiness somehow felt like betrayal.

There were times when I wondered whether I still had the right to be happy.

Times when laughter caught me by surprise and was almost immediately followed by guilt. How could I smile when Michael was gone? How could I celebrate the birth of another child, a birthday, or a happy family moment without feeling as though I was leaving him behind?

Of course, I never stopped loving him. Not for a single second. But grief can have a cruel voice. It can make us believe that joy is a form of disloyalty and that happiness is something we no longer deserve.

Little by little, I came to understand that loving the children born after Michael did not take away from the love I had for him. My heart never replaced one child with another. It simply learned to carry love and absence at the same time.

That, too, belongs in the backpack.

Grief and joy do not cancel each other out. They simply learn to live side by side.

I wrote this book for my children. Because they do not always understand why their mother is not quite like other mothers. Why I sometimes hold on a little too tightly. Why my heart races when they do not answer the phone. Why I need to know that they are safe.

I wrote it in simple words — my words — so that they could understand what I have lived through and why I am the person I am today.

Because the day I lost Michael, I did not only lose my son. I lost something else too: my innocence. My belief that the worst tragedies only happen to other people.

Before that day, I thought I was protected. I thought tragedy was something you heard about, read about, and felt sorry for — but always from a distance.

I was wrong.

And now I know.

I know it in my body, in my stomach, in my chest. Every time one of my children takes too long to reply, every time the phone rings late at night, every time silence replaces the answer I am waiting for, something tightens inside me. My heart clenches. My stomach knots.

Because I now know that the worst can happen.

It happened to me once.

And that knowledge never leaves.

I do my best. Despite the comments, despite the criticism, I try. I take a breath. I hold back. But it is not easy. It is never truly easy.

That, too, is in the backpack.

Twenty-six years later, I still carry Michael with me every day.

The backpack is still there.

But I have learned to walk with that absence.

If you are a bereaved parent reading this, please know this: you are not grieving too slowly. The weight you carry is heavy. It is real. It is valid. And it does not come with an expiration date.

And to those who support bereaved parents, I would like to leave you with one simple thought:

Please, don’t look at the calendar.

Look at the person.

Because they need support, not advice. They need someone to listen, not someone to provide solutions. Sometimes they simply need a shoulder to cry on, even many years later.

Please understand that we never truly “get over” the loss of a child. We learn to live with the absence, but the absence never disappears.

That scar is tattooed on the heart of every bereaved parent. It may be invisible to you, but we carry it every single day.

So please be patient. Be kind. Be understanding.

Sometimes the greatest gift you can offer a bereaved parent is not an answer, but your presence.

Valérie Lamber
Michael’s Mum