March 11. Such a familiar date. My birthday, yet also the days I lost everything. I lost my father on my fourth birthday. Oh, how much I hated myself for that day. My father always started his day before dawn - his morning ritual of preparing a full English was his labour of love. I pictured him in the kitchen, humming an old Celtic song under his breath while frying up eggs and tomatoes. He worked thankless hours at the Ministry but never failed to make time for family. Why hadn't I appreciated that more?

I wanted a new potions set for my birthday, but my father said he couldn't afford it with his salary at the ministry. I got angry and said something I wish I could take back. My mother came downstairs when it got too loud and tried to calm me down. I refused, and it got even worse. My father had to hurry. He was running late. My mother tried to get me to give him a hug and say goodbye. I ran up to him. He had his arms open, waiting for me. I slapped his hands away and screamed, 'I hate you'.

That was the last thing I said to him. He looked heartbroken and almost seemed to tear up. I knew I had hurt him, but I was unwilling to say sorry. I blew a raspberry at him and ran upstairs.

Around midday, before my mother left for work at the nursing home, we heard a knock at the door. My mother opened the door. The next thing I remember is that they handed a wrapped up box to my mother before she closed the door. She then just broke down. She wailed like a dying whale. The sounds that came out of her mouth were primal. I had never seen my mother like that. I slowly walked up to her to try to comfort her. She hugged me and continued to wail. She told me that my father had died on the way to work.

He took a detour to Slugs & Jiggers Apothecary to buy my birthday present. There was an attack by the Death Eaters. In broad daylight, they used the cruciatus curse on him due to his blood status as a squib. They threw him around like he was a ball, and they were playing catch. No one watching stepped in to help. He was tortured for 11 minutes before Aurour-in-Training Alice Longbottom came to stop them. Once they saw her, they ran like headless chickens. Mrs. Longbottom tried to help, but it was too late. Nobody survives a cruciatus curse for 11 minutes and lives. His last words to her were to tell his family that he was sorry and that he loved us.

Tears cascaded down my cheeks. My chest felt constricted, as if a vice had tightened around my heart, squeezing out every ounce of hope and joy I had ever known.

"I'm sorry, Mama," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I didn't mean. I promise. I didn't want him to die. I didn't mean. Don't hate me. Don't hate..."

Mother's eyes softened, filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding. "We all say things we regret, my love," she replied, her voice faint but full of love. "Your father knew you loved him, even in his final moments."

In the months after the funeral, I'd often find Mother sitting alone in Father's armchair, staring blankly ahead while letting her tea go cold. Her usual vibrancy had faded into a listless shadow. I was all she had. I promised to be strong for her from now on. She fell ill more often than she already did. That was until two years later, when the pain finally stopped. March 11, 1983. It was my sixth birthday. I should have been celebrating like any other child, but I stooped by my mother's bedside, watching her frail form wracked with pain. There has been no joy since that day.

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Time seemed to stand still as I sat by my mother's bedside; each passing moment felt like an eternity. The sterile scent of antiseptic permeated the air. It mingled with the faint sweet aroma of the wilted flowers in the vase on the bedside table. The room was suffocatingly quiet, except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the shallow rasps of my mother's breath. My hands trembled as I reached out to touch my mother's cold fingers, trying to stop the last thing I cared about slipping from my grasps.

Tears slowly welled up in my eyes, blurring the last images of her. I couldn't bear the thought of losing her as well.

I had never seen my mother's eyes more void of colour since the day we lost my father.

"Percy, my sweet boy," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of the machines. "I'm so sorry, my love. I won't be able to see you grow up."

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, crushing my already broken heart. I shook my head vehemently, refusing to accept what she was saying.

"No, Mama, you'll be fine," I choked out, my voice breaking. "You have to be fine. You can't leave me alone."

"You will never be alone," she said as she painfully took the necklace off her neck and placed it on mine. "You will never be alone. We will always be by your side. This belonged to your father's family, and they gave it to me on the day you were born."

I tried to take it off and give it back to her. She weakly raised her hand and stopped me. "It's now yours. When you wear it, know that we'll always be by your side. My mother and father are coming to pick you up. Be a good boy. Remember what your father used to say?"

"A heart that's broken is a heart that's been loved. A life with love is a life that's been lived."

I shook my head vehemently, refusing to accept what she was saying. But inside, I felt myself slowly shattering into a million pieces. This couldn't be real. It had to be a nightmare. I dug my nails into my palms, clinging to any last shred of hope.

As the hours passed and the shadows lengthened, I stayed by my mother's side, unwilling to leave her alone in her final moments. I whispered to her all the memories I had of the good old times so she could leave this world with a smile.

Just as I felt my world crumbling around me, the door slowly opened, and my grandparents quietly entered the room, their faces etched with indifference. "Mama!" my mother whispered as her grandmother slowly walked towards her.

Mother managed a weak smile, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her parents.

"Mum, Dad," she whispered, her voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry, I'm not the daughter you wanted me to be."

"Hush now, child. You're perfect," the grandmother said as she shed a single tear. "There's nothing we wouldn't give to see you healthy again. We'll take care of Percival and give him the life we failed to give you."

"Thank you."

"There's no need to thank us. It's what families do."

The shadows grew longer, and the light slowly extinguished. My grandparents hugged me and wiped a tear from the side of my face. They took me back home to pack my belongings and walk the hall one last time. I took the supermarket flowers from the windowsill. I threw the day old tea from the cup. I packed up the photo album my mother had made. I took the get well soon cards and stuffed animals. Fluffed the pillows, made the beds for one last time, and stacked the chairs up. I walked out of the house for the last time.