How do I tell the children that yesterday was the last time they saw their Dad?

This was a conversation I had to have on Monday, 7th May 2018, and it was, without doubt, the hardest conversation of my entire life, and I’ve had a few difficult conversations.

Being faced with telling the boys that their Dad had decided to take his own life and we wouldn’t see him again was horrific. The words felt impossible to form, the responsibility crushing. Yet somehow, I had to find the strength to tell them.

The Devastating Day

I remember that morning with painful clarity. The shock; finding him, running to my neighbour for help, the call to the police, calling his parents, the number of police officers and medical teams, the sudden silence when they all finally left. My mind was barely functioning, toggling between numbness and overwhelming pain; yet through it all, I knew my children needed me more than ever.

I wanted to keep them safe from the truth, to shield them from that life-changing knowledge, but I’ve always believed that being honest with them (at age-appropriate levels) is the right thing to do. This time, despite wanting to do otherwise, it was no different. Every fiber of my being wanted to protect them, to shield them from the brutal reality. But I knew that honesty, however painful, was the foundation they would need to begin processing their grief.

It was made exponentially more difficult as I was also dealing with the shock of finding him and the aftermath that followed. The images were still fresh, the trauma still raw. How could I possibly support them through their grief when my own was threatening to consume me?

But they deserved answers as to why their day wasn’t turning out to be the day they were expecting to have. They had woken up to confusion, to whispered conversations, to the absence of their father, suddenly being taken to the neigbours house to spend the day, instead of heading to the school fayre like they were expecting. They deserved to know why.

Finding the Words

So after everyone had left, I took a breath, took them to one side and had the most devastating conversation. I chose a quiet space, away from distractions. I sat them down where I could hold their hands, where I could pull them into my arms when the words hit.

Through a vision filled with tears and a voice cracking with emotion, I reminded them that they were loved very much, and what I was about to tell them would be really hard to hear, but the mental illness that Dad had been living with for so long had finally won, and he felt that he couldn’t carry on anymore and had taken his own life and we wouldn’t see him again.

The confusion followed by the hurt and devastation was the hardest thing to watch, especially when all of your instincts are screaming at you to protect them and shield them from hurt. My youngest looked confused, as if he couldn’t comprehend the words. My eldest understood immediately, his face crumpling with a pain no child should ever have to feel. They cried. I cried. We held each other in that first terrible moment of our new reality.

The Days That Followed

While that initial conversation was all we could cope with right then, I gradually filled in more detail one-on-one as they asked questions, and they both processed what happened at their own pace. There is an almost three-year age gap between them, and their understanding of the world and life, while similar, was also very different at ages 10 and 13.

The days after that conversation blurred together. We moved through the motions of life; arranging the funeral, notifying schools, accepting casseroles and bunches of flowers from friends and neighbours who didn’t know what else to do. Through it all, my children’s questions continued, sometimes in torrents, sometimes in trickles.

“Was Dad sad because of me?” “Could we have stopped him?” “Did he not love us enough to stay?” “Where is he now?”

Each question felt like reopening a wound, but I answered as honestly as I could, always reassuring them that their father loved them deeply, that mental illness distorts thinking, and that his decision came from a place of pain, not a lack of love.

Different Children, Different Needs

Over the next few weeks/months/years, they both had questions, and we dealt with them in age-appropriate ways. If they were both together, then the detail was kept to a level suitable for my youngest, and I’d follow up with my eldest at a later stage when we were alone. My eldest wanted to know more details than my youngest, and with my youngest, it took him until about five years afterwards to ask for the details of how Dad actually died.

My eldest needed facts. He wanted to understand the mechanics of depression, to know the timeline of events, to process logically what his heart couldn’t comprehend.

My youngest processed his grief differently. His questions came randomly, often when we were doing something completely unrelated, as if the moment felt safe enough to venture into that painful territory.

The Persistent Confusion of Young Grief

For quite a long time, my youngest would ask what time Daddy would be home. I think it was made especially difficult as their Dad was a lighting designer for live events and would often work away from home. So, in those first few weeks, it was as if he was just away for work and not away for good.

“Daddy’s coming home on Friday, right?” he would ask, and my heart would break all over again as I’d gently remind him that Daddy wasn’t coming back. Sometimes he’d nod and continue playing, sometimes he’d cry as if hearing it for the first time.

Expecting His Return

And honestly, even though I was the one that found him that day, I also felt that he would just walk through the door. Even after the funeral and knowing he was gone, there would be days when I’d hear a car door and would expect him to be coming through our front door. Then, the realisation would hit, and the grief wave would be overwhelming.

That was me as an adult with more experience and comprehension of how horrible the world can be. Being a child thrown into the dark part of life that way must have been even harder to cope with. It was the first experience of death either one of them had had. And for it to be their Dad was devastatingly life-changing.

Finding Support

We couldn’t navigate this alone. Grief counseling became part of my routine. we talked about the help that was out there and support groups for children who had lost parents to suicide. Showing them they weren’t alone, that their complicated feelings were normal, made a huge difference

At school, I made sure their teachers were aware of our situation. Some days, concentrating was impossible for them. Having supportive adults in all areas of their lives created a safety net that held us when I alone couldn’t.

The Gradual Healing

Healing didn’t come in a straight line. There were good days followed by terrible ones, progress followed by setbacks. Holidays and anniversaries were particularly difficult, reopening wounds we thought were beginning to heal. But slowly, gradually, we found a new normal.

Seven years later, there are still moments of grief. My youngest finally asked for the details of how his Dad died, and I answered truthfully, preparing myself for the fallout of that knowledge. But he surprised me with his resilience, processing the information and integrating it into his understanding in a way that seemed to bring him a measure of peace.

What I’ve Learned

If you find yourself facing this impossible conversation, here’s what I’ve learned that might help:

1. Be honest but age-appropriate. Children need truth, but presented in ways they can process.
2. Answer questions as they come. Don’t force information they’re not ready for, but be prepared to answer when they ask.
3. Reassure them constantly. They need to know they were loved, that it wasn’t their fault, that they couldn’t have prevented it.
4. Allow all emotions. Anger, confusion, denial—all are normal responses that need space for expression.
5. Seek professional help. This is too big to handle alone. Find therapists experienced in childhood grief and suicide loss.
6. Take care of yourself. Your children need you stable and present, which means addressing your own grief too.
7. Keep their father’s memory alive. Help them remember the person, not just the way he died.
8. Be patient with regression. Children may temporarily return to earlier behaviors—bedwetting, clinginess, tantrums. This is normal.
9. Prepare for grief to resurface. Developmental milestones often trigger new waves of grief as children understand their loss differently.
10. Find community. Connect with others who understand this specific type of loss.

It Will Get Better

It will be one of the hardest things you have to face as a parent.

You know your children, and you know how best to talk to them.

They’ll come to you with different questions and thoughts, which quite often can come out of the blue. It’s so hard, and you might not want to answer at the time, but it’s important for them to understand, so be compassionate and answer as best you can. Come back to the question later if you need to, but always be honest and truthful and answer at an age-appropriate level. It’s crucial in the healing for all of you.

Know that you are stronger than you think, that it is possible, and that you can and will come through the other side of this horribly dark time. There will be days when you won’t believe this—when the grief feels as fresh as it did that first day. But I promise you, those days become less frequent.

Our family will never be the same. The absence of their father has shaped my children in profound ways. But they are also shaped by his presence in their lives, by the love he gave them, by the parts of himself that live on in them.

They are resilient, compassionate, and deeply empathetic young men now. They understand the fragility of life and the importance of mental health in ways I wish they never had to learn. But they are moving forward, carrying their father with them but not being defined by his death.

And if you’re reading this in the raw aftermath of your own loss, know that one day, you will be able to breathe again too. One breath, one day, one moment at a time. You will find your way through.