On an ordinary Wednesday, my life changed forever.
It was 2012, the July school holidays. My husband Peter was overseas, and I was juggling the busyness of a chaotic house, three kids and a long to-do list.
My daughter Molly, aged 13, was on our property with my other daughter Emily, aged 10, and one of their friends. They were riding a quad bike - it was a normal part of life for them as farm kids.
My phone rang. Emily, saying there’d been an accident.
I raced down to the paddock where they were. As soon as I saw Molly, although there wasn’t a mark on her, I knew she was gone.
A freak accident, and the world as I knew it no longer existed.
Every parent’s worst nightmare, and I couldn’t wake up from it.
Saying goodbye to Molly is the hardest thing I’ve had to do in my life. Her loss came not long after I’d lost my mum to cancer, and had my own battles with health. I’d hit rock bottom. It was a dark place.
Most people didn’t know what to say or how to react. Some people came by with food and supplies, and gave us space. Others kept away, perhaps because they couldn’t bring themselves to face us or to confront Molly’s death.