The sun still rises and sets every day but I am stuck at 6.08pm on 4 August 2020, when Isaac was taken from me
Five months ago, my son died.
As I write these words and read them over and over again, they are so incomprehensible that they might as well be in a foreign language. Again and again I read them, unable to grasp that they relate to me, that they form part of my story. These words belong in a novel, or a sad news story about some poor family that I will never meet, but will take a moment to feel sorry for before going back to my life. They cannot be my life. I cannot be the one that people look at and silently thank God that my life is not their own.