A response to Te Ururoa Flavell. The author's name is withheld at her request.
They cross the road when they see my mother coming. The neighbours shuffle quickly back inside, as though scared it might be contagious. A hundred bunches of flowers are turning slowly brown inside the house, but the phone stays stubbornly silent.
The men talk to my father of rugby. Fishing. Boating. Work. Anything but what has happened. The children at my sister's school whisper and point: "There goes the girl whose brother killed himself."
When the priest speaks of him, he is painfully careful to avoid the subject of how he died. Friends drop out of contact with us. His very name is enough to kill conversation stone dead and make everyone look pointedly at their watches. Often, they suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.
Mourners tell us they are sorry. That it is a waste, tragic, sad. But nobody wants to talk about why. The less kind among them whisper that the problem must be us. He would rather die than count himself among our number, we are failed mothers, fathers, sisters and grandparents. We are assumed to be somehow part of the problem. To some, logically, we must have only ourselves to blame. Some of the readers of this piece will undoubtedly have thoughts along the same lines. Because it would never happen in their family. Just like three years ago, it would never happen in mine. We were happy, normal, functional. Middle class, all working, none involved in crime or drugs. He was a "good boy".
