By REBECCA SPARROW
A little boy with a cheeky, mischievous grin and twinkling eyes. A little boy who loves his big sister and Spiderman and playing outside in the sunshine. A little boy who could be my little boy.
One minute William Tyrell was playing with his big sister in his grandma’s garden in Northern New South Wales and the next moment he was gone. Vanished into thin air.
That was five days ago.
And for the past five days I have deliberately attempted to block this story out. The story of a missing little boy. You see, a few weeks ago I stopped watching the nightly news. I stopped reading the newspapers – online or otherwise. This year has been so incredibly brutal I just felt – selfishly, I suppose – that I couldn’t take one more ‘bad news story’. One more massacre. One more death. One more devastation. I suppose what I was doing was sticking my head in the sand.
But a little boy is missing.
And you know what? Until three-year-old William Tyrell of Kendall in New South Wales is found then I’m not sure I have the right to turn a blind eye, to pretend it’s not happening.
Because if this were my little boy I would want the nation praying for the safe return of my son. I would want the country on high alert. I would want his picture posted a million times; I would want the public to stay vigilant. I would want every good wish and thought sent my way. I would want people to CARE.
So I am. I will. I do.
Because we need to find William. We cannot allow what happened to Daniel Morcombe and his parents Bruce and Denise to ever be repeated.