My Beloved Child and Death

It was on a quiet Sunday morning when the air carried a strange stillness that unsettled my heart. The sun rose beautifully, painting the sky with golden strokes, but for some reason, I couldn’t feel the usual joy it brought. My little boy, Chidera, had been running a fever since the night before. I thought it was just one of those common childhood fevers that would fade with rest and medicine. How wrong I was.

Chidera was the light of my life — my only child, my laughter, and my heartbeat. Ever since his father died in an accident three years ago, my world had revolved around him. Every morning, I would wake up to his innocent voice calling, “Mummy, good morning,” followed by his warm hug. His smile had the power to heal even my deepest wounds. But that morning, instead of his usual cheerfulness, I met silence.

When I walked into his room, I saw him lying on his little bed, his face pale and his breathing shallow. Fear gripped my soul. I called his name again and again, shaking him gently, but he didn’t respond. I rushed him to the hospital, praying under my breath, “God, please, not my child.”

At the hospital, the nurses took him from my arms and laid him on a stretcher. The doctor came quickly, checking his pulse, his heartbeat, and his temperature. Minutes passed, but they felt like hours. My hands trembled as I waited outside the ward. My heart pounded louder than the ticking clock on the wall. Finally, the doctor stepped out, his face heavy with sympathy.

“Madam,” he began softly, “we are doing our best. His condition is critical. Please pray.”

Pray? That was all I could do — pray and cry. I knelt right there in the hospital hallway, begging God for mercy. I promised anything, everything, if only He would spare my beloved child.

As the night grew deep, the lights in the ward flickered. The machines beeped softly, keeping rhythm with his faint heartbeat. I sat by his bedside, holding his small hand in mine. His eyes opened for a moment, weak but filled with love. “Mummy,” he whispered, “don’t cry. I will be fine.”

Those were his last words.

A few hours later, the doctor came in again, his face pale. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. I felt my world collapse. My knees gave way, and I fell to the floor, screaming his name. My Chidera was gone.

Days turned into weeks, and my house became a hollow shell of silence. Everywhere I turned, his presence lingered — his school bag by the door, his toys on the floor, his picture on the wall. Nights were the hardest; I would lie awake, listening for his voice that would never come again.

People told me to be strong, to accept God’s will. But how does a mother accept that her child — the one she carried for nine months, the one she sang lullabies to — is gone forever?

One evening, I sat alone on the veranda, the sun setting behind the hills. A soft wind brushed against my face, and I felt an unexplainable warmth. For a brief moment, I thought I heard his laughter — gentle, sweet, familiar. I looked up at the sky and whispered, “Chidera, my beloved child, I will always love you.”

Tears filled my eyes, but this time, they carried peace. I realized that death could take his body, but never his memory, never his love. He would always live in my heart — my little angel, my beloved child.

And though the pain never truly leaves, I’ve learned to smile again. Because I know that somewhere beyond the clouds, he’s smiling too — free, happy, and watching over me.

I appreciate you guys for reading my post to the end

Picture is chrome generated