**MUM, DON’T LEAVE ME!**
A rainy evening in Manchester. Nearly forty years have passed since the death of my son, Jeremy, yet the pain lingers. I still can’t accept it, still can’t understand why we were burdened with such sorrow, why he left so soon, leaving behind a wound in my heart that never heals.
**The Angelic Child**
My husband and I hesitated for a long time before having a second child. My parents weren’t supportive either whenever I timidly raised the idea. Our eldest daughter, Emily, was the centre of our universe, showered with love and attention. A new child would inevitably change everything—babies demand so much care!
But one day, we took the leap. Emily was already eleven, a bright girl who excelled in school and never caused trouble. The age gap seemed perfect.
I can’t say I awaited Jeremy’s arrival with excitement. By then, I’d built a career at a research institute, even earned my doctorate. Having a baby meant putting work on hold, diving wholly into family life, and that frightened me.
On the 12th of September 1973, Jeremy was born. From the start, he was extraordinary. As he grew, we marvelled at him. He drew like a seasoned artist, spoke in long, thoughtful sentences, and amazed us with his wisdom. His hair—golden curls like an angel’s! Gentle and tender, he seemed to glow from within.
I remember when he was about four, odd things began happening. Once, he ran to me from his room, the sunlight at his back casting a radiant halo around him. A strange man’s voice echoed in my mind: *”Look and remember—you won’t see this again.”*
From then on, that voice haunted me. It whispered in silence, in dreams, each time filling me with dread. Something terrible was coming. Something final. And it was close.
**The Shadow of Loss**
In June 1978, we sent Jeremy to stay with my mother at her cottage near Manchester, while Emily went to summer camp. Every weekend, my husband and I visited Jeremy, but instead of joy, my mother only complained: he wouldn’t listen, fought with the neighbour’s children, grew defiant.
How I blame myself now! We never tried to understand what was troubling him. Maybe his mischief was a cry for help, a plea we ignored. Instead, we took him to a doctor, who said his physical development lagged behind his mind, prescribed herbal remedies, and offered vague advice.
One day, we drove to the river for a swim. Walking would’ve taken too long, and Jeremy adored the water. But that day, he was restless, wearing us out within hours. Again, the voice: *”Look and remember!”* I turned and met the gaze of a neighbour—the grandmother of a boy Jeremy had fought. Her eyes burned with hatred, as if cursing us.
Now I recall: Jeremy hadn’t wanted to go to the cottage. He clung to me, hugged me tight, and whispered, *”Mum, don’t leave me!”* But I didn’t listen.
There were other signs. A week before the tragedy, Emily begged us to bring Jeremy to camp to see her. Odd—she’d never shown much interest in him before. Had we agreed, he’d have stayed in the city, and perhaps everything would’ve been different. But we dismissed it as inconvenient.
On the day it happened, I’d planned to visit the cottage to deliver the herbs the doctor prescribed. But at the last moment, I changed my mind.
At midnight, there was a knock at the door. My uncle and his son stood there. *”Katherine, pack your things. Jeremy’s drowned.”* At first, I heard *”drowning”* and, without asking questions, rushed to get ready.
On the way, the truth crashed over me like a wave. I refused to believe it. My boy had drowned in the old pond near the cottage, and no one had noticed!
My mother hadn’t realised he was missing at first. By the time they searched, called the neighbours, someone braved the murky water… it was too late. They found him, but couldn’t bring him back.
**Living with the Pain**
All these years, I’ve wondered: how much it matters, the thoughts we carry when expecting a child, how we truly feel about them—not in words, but in our hearts. Children sense everything. Why did Jeremy leave so soon? Perhaps his purpose here was fulfilled, as some say now. Maybe that neighbour by the river cursed him? Or was it something else? I don’t know.
Twelve years later, Emily had a son. At the age Jeremy had been, my grandson was his spitting image. He was terrified of water, and sometimes I wonder if Jeremy’s soul returned to us, forgiving us for everything.
But the pain remains. Every day, I hear his voice: *”Mum, don’t leave me!”* And every day, I blame myself for not listening when it mattered most.
Life teaches us too late that love isn’t just in the grand gestures—it’s in the moments we choose to truly see and hear those who need us most.