Dead Right

My three-year-old son predicted my death Susan McGivern, 56, from Coventry.

- Amanda Vlietstra

Sitting in the living room watching telly, I cuddled my three-year-old son Michael as he sat on my lap. The youngest of my three children, we’d always had a special bond.

Suddenly he turned to me. His big blue eyes were wide with fear and worry.

‘What will we do when you die next Wednesday, Mummy?’ he asked me.

My mouth fell open with shock. Where had that come from?

‘Oh Michael, don’t say that,’ I gasped. ‘Of course, Mummy’s not going to die!’

But he still looked really worried, bless him.

When my husband Tommy got home from work that evening, I told him what Michael had said.

‘Maybe he’s psychic,’ Tommy joked. ‘Perhaps he knows something we don’t?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I laughed. After all, I was a fit and healthy 30-year-old, had barely had a day’s illness in my life apart from tonsillitis, and my tonsils had been removed in 1983.

I didn’t think anything more of it. I had planning and packing to do- my sister was having the kids so that Tommy and I could go to a family party in Rochdale that weekend. We were staying the night with Tommy’s uncle, then driving back the next day.

I didn’t get much time to myself as a busy mum of three, so I was really looking forward to it. But on a Saturday morning, I woke up with a stiff neck.

Probably just slept funny, I thought to myself.

But the drive up to Rochdale seemed to take forever, and the further we got, the more my neck ached. Tommy doesn’t drive, so I was the one behind the wheel. By the time we got to Rochdale, I wasn’t in the mood for partying anymore, but I plastered a smile onto my face and tried to look like I was having a good time, for Tommy’s sake.