Earlier this year, when Lennon was still here, I heard of a mother - a friend of a friend - that lost her son who was around Lennon's age. The story hit me really hard and I kept thinking of this mother, wondering how she could ever go on living. That night when I put Lennon to bed I cried and told  him to never ever leave me, as I would not know how life could ever continue without him.

Only a couple of months later I too am that mother. Yet I did not die either - I am still here, something I could have never imagined possible. After the accident I was sure that my broken heart would just stop beating. But some survival instinct combined with the responsibility and love I feel for most of all Bessie, made me survive another second, another minute, then an hour and suddenly weeks turned into months.

Yet life is not the same anymore.

I remember one perfect hot sunday. We took the kids to Portobello beach and Lennon was splashing around in the sea, laughing loud when the shallow waves touched his tiny feet. Later the four of us went to a friend's BBQ and Lennon stripped down in the garden and he was so proud when he was allowed to carry his dad's beer. In the evening we carried our two exhausted kids home and I felt like the luckiest woman alive to be the mother of these amazing children.

Having lost Lennon has broken my heart, even if it kept on beating. I am still able to feel all the love and adoration for Bessie, she is my daughter just as he will always be my son and I want to make her life as happy as possible. But I can't imagine that any day can ever feel this perfect again, as Lennon will be missing, no matter how good any moment may be.

On Friday my friends in Munich are having their annual Christmas dinner and for the first time I am not going to go. I will avoid it, like I avoid so many things now. Meeting one or two friends at a time is fine for me, as long as I can focus on somebody or something. Yet in a social group in which one has to make small talk, in which conversations are just thrown back and forth, I think I would just feel lost and alone.

What hurts even more is that I even avoid seeing the kids that Lennon grew up with, his peers and friends. I used to say that I would find it hard to ever leave Edinburgh, as I would not want to miss seeing those toddlers grow up to become children, teenagers, adults. I loved them and felt responsible for their well being too. They were part of our life. And now that this awful tragedy happened I feel like I can't face seeing them as it would just make our loss so much more real.

I even avoided speaking to my little nephew on his forth birthday as I knew I would just break down in tears hearing his little voice and knowing that I would never hear Lennon's again.

When I meet new people I make sure that they only have a child of around Bessie's age and and if at playground I see a mother with two happy siblings I avoid eye contact.

But how long can I keep this up for? Or will it do more harm than good to keep avoiding situations that make me face what I have lost?

Sometimes I wonder what I am scared of, as the most painful thing has happened and there should be no more fear. Maybe I am scared of not being able to control my tears, of breaking down again and again.

I am sorry and apologise to all those beautiful kids that I avoid. It's nothing personal and I, more than anyone, would wish that I could still watch you grow up, together with my son.