I know that when you set off that day you didn’t intend to kill anyone, but you did and you changed our lives for ever. After a lovely day in London, I was unexpectedly met at the station by my solemn-faced next-door neighbour. He said: “There’s been an accident and your mum is at the hospital with your sister. I can take you there now.”

I had very little information, but I wasn’t expecting to see what I saw when I arrived at the hospital. I have never felt the same stillness and intense silence that I did that night. Intensive care is eerie – tubes, beeps and the low hum of machines.

My sister looked so calm, it was hard to understand that she could be brain dead and I didn’t believe she would never regain consciousness. I kept looking at her and wondering how she could look so serene and perfect and yet everything be so wrong.

After five days, my sister’s life was finally ended. My dad sat in the office in the intensive care unit on his own while the doctors switched off all the machines and, for that, I will for ever admire his bravery and courage.

Life after that was a blur of immense sadness and us trying to understand what happened. How could a teenager on a bike ride end up dead with no one answerable for it? We were told by the police that it was an accident. Yes, it was, but it could have been avoided if you hadn’t been driving too fast.

My parents thought of you, but you never wrote to them to apologise. On the day my sister was buried, the last words on the order of service said: “Let’s pray for the two families whose lives will be for ever altered as a result of her death.”

I couldn’t bear to drive past your house or down the road where my sister spent her last moment and was certified as brain dead. The town where we all grew up felt alien to me and I still hate visiting the city where she lay in that cold, hushed intensive-care unit.

My parents are truly amazing and gave us a happy, nurturing family life. Our house was always full of friends: the whisky bottle ready for anyone needing a hot toddy, Mum’s teapot overflowing and her cakes legendary. It was idyllic in many ways – jolly children, lots of laughter. Mum never let us go out or to bed on an argument. Thank goodness.

So when you drove your car too fast that day, you threw a grenade into our lives. A little light or spark went out in my dad. When I look into his eyes I see sadness. He never talks about it – men of his generation don’t talk about their feelings. My mum kept going like a trouper for two years to get everyone else through it, and then it hit her like a tsunami. Losing a child is an unimaginable loss.

I don’t hate you, but I hope that you have a conscience so that you think about the impact of what you did and the consequences. I felt as if a massive black cloud had covered our world and it took years to go away. From significant events, such as Christmas, birthdays and our weddings, to little things like my sister’s cat dying, these are all painful reminders of what you stole from us. And this never ends. My dad will celebrate a very big birthday soon, but someone won’t be there.

Decades have passed, the pain never goes away, we have just learned to live with it. All we wanted was for you to say” “I am sorry.”

Anonymous

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