When Mark Lemon was 12, “his fathers” was killed. Even at such a young age he knew he had to make peace with himself in order to have a future

On Tuesday 12 May 1992, my father was assassinated and my world changed for ever.

At 3pm, a educator has now come to my classroom to say to me my mother had requested that I go home urgently. I will never forget that heart-sinking feeling at the had considered that something terrible had happened. I arrived residence to be was welcomed by police cars and the phone of my sister crying in the front room a audio that will stay with me for ever.

My mother took me upstairs and told me my father had died that morning. I have never held her so tightly. I would never determine my daddy again, I felt. I would never play football with him again and I would never support his hand again. I was 12.

After I was told, I absconded the house, got on my bike, and went back to school to discover one of my closest acquaintances, whose papa had died of lung cancer when she was nine. I recollect falling my bicycle on the school driveway, extending towards her and collapsing into her forearms. I whispered two words Dads dead, then sank to the floor and burst into tears.

It was not until I came back home that evening that my uncle sat me down to tell me that Dad had not died in a vehicle clang, as I had at first envisioned, but had been murdered.

At the time, our household had a cleaner who was going through a difficult divorce and my parents were helping her through it. The husband would check her upright to try to find anything that pointed to his wife having an thing. Because of this, she had her post redirected to our home so my father could keep it and guide it safely on to her.

On 12 May, the husband followed his wife to the house where my father delivered the post. He turned up to find my fathers vehicle outside. He went to a neighbourhood shop where he plagiarized a boning spear, then returned to the house where my father and the woman were sucking coffee in the kitchen.

After a brief struggle, the man attracted out the knife and stabbed my father twice, killing him instant and then swerving on his wife. The wife operated out of the house and the three men grabbed another bayonet from the kitchen and continues to stab my father. He then interred the spear in the plot and left.

He was later caught and went to prison for four years.

That evening, as my uncle told me how my father had died, my appearing are members of rage and I blaspheme to do to the man what he had to be undertaken to my father. I even picked up my fathers pocket knife, telling my uncle that I would get revenge.

Deep down, though, I knew that the only practice I could live my life was to make peace with myself. It clangs strange, but I ever tried to stay positive after my fathers slaying. I had to make peace with myself at an early age for the good of my future.

I still vividly recollect my fathers funeral. I was standing outside the church when one of my fathers pals approached. You are now the three men of the family, he announced. For a 12 -year-old boy who had just lost his role model, it was quite a burden to be told I was now held liable for looking after my mother and two sisters.

For many years, I wouldnt talk about what happened. I locked the memories away. But I could never forget my pas smile, or how quickly he stepped and how I struggled to keep up with him when viewing his hands. I had affection spending time with him, specially playing football or tennis. After he was dead, I stopped playing play it was too painful a remember of the times we had invested together.

The grieving process is strange. No substance how you knowledge it, one day you are fine and the next the heartache smacks you like a sledgehammer.

Throughout my teenage years, my suffering had turned to wrath and frustration why had this happened to me? The last-place stuff on my knowledge was leaving academy with good points. But I was highly fortunate to have a supporter network that stopped me on the right path. I had an incredible baby who loved me and accepted that stuffs would be OK in time, and my friends were supportive and understanding.

I have always believed that I have been guided subconsciously by something; perhaps my father has been helping me along the way.

On 17 April 2011, I became a father for the first time. I was a dad to a child boy, Otis. To impound young children for the first time is a magical instant, but for me it felt extra special. All of my emotions and heartache had washed away at that moment, and all I felt was adore for this babe.

I had never actually was just thinking about the psychological legacy of my fathers slaughter until I became a father myself. Now, virtually 25 times after my fathers death, I am married to Simone and have two children, Otis, six, and Thea, two. But the overwhelming appreciation of loss is still great and I cant assistance but wonder how this distressing contest realized me the mother I am today. The obvious ramification was that losing a role model at such a young age left me without a male representation to go to for advice.

I would also find it painful seeing acquaintances homes, insuring them with their parents. I did become very close to one pal and his family. They would let me stay over and ingest with them; and I have always tried to take inspiration from your best friend father. Principally, though, I enjoyed the strong appreciation of family they had together. This is what I missed most in losing my own papa so young.

I have been very lucky to be helped by people who simply attended and this has helped me be the leader I am today.

If there is one hero in this tragic episode, it is my mum. The forte she must have had to carry on with three children is stunning and I will never understand how she maintained so strong following the loss of her husband, just as I will never be able to comprehend why another person said he wished to justification so much senseless extermination, changing so many was living in the process.

Since becoming a dad, I have always known that the time “il come when” I will have to sit down with my children to tell them what happened to Grandpa. Otis currently being been asking questions about where Grandpa is and why he isnt alive any more. I guess it is about to address it in stages throughout his life. But the time will come eventually.

It was not until my mid-2 0s that I looked for proper facilitate. The greatest challenge for anyone struggling with their mental health is to open up and be brave enough to talk about how the objective is detect. I was facilitated enormously by the bereavement charity Cruse.

By speaking about this subject so publicly, my hope is that, in some manner, I can help a young person knowing a similar loss.

Fantastic donations such as Winstons Wish and Cruse understand the consequences of the bereavement at a young age and have developed a range of practical support and counseling “for childrens”, their own families and professionals. They render specialist support programmes for children afflicted by extinctions related to slaughter, manslaughter, suicide or the military community.

Writing about something so personal has been hard, but strangely cathartic. Four paroles have always deposited with me: meter is my healer. Time doesnt represent dealing with my fathers lamentable loss all very well, but it does enable me to learn how to cope with the loss.

I hope that in some manner my experience has educated me to enjoy life and adoration their own families even more. It must really committed me an outlook on life that can only come from losing someone so precious. It has prepared me stronger, both for myself and for my family.



Mark Lemons latest book, Thea Lemon and Her Super Sporty Fairy Godmother, is published by lemondropbooks.co.uk


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