My lovely son died over a senseless Snapchat spat Catherine Wardle, 61, Wallsend
Hearing the front door swing open while I did the washing-up, I dried my hands on a tea towel.
It was April 1990, and as a single mum to four boys, life was never dull.
‘It’s Natty,’ I heard my neighbour call out, as I spun round to see my eldest, Nathaniel, then 11, bleeding in his arms.
I gasped.
Natty had a gaping hole in his forehead and some of his teeth were smashed. He was barely conscious. ‘What happened?’ I cried, holding him as we waited for an ambulance.
He’d been on his cousin’s quad bike, hit a pothole and flew into a concrete post.
Poor Natty spent seven weeks in hospital.
Had frontal lobe brain damage, short-term memory loss. Surgeons screwed a metal frame in his skull from the top of his head to his jaw.
Life was never the same for him again.
He had learning difficulties and blurred vision, and he lost his taste and smell.
Yet he was still the same happy-go-lucky lad, never lost his infectious smile. When his frame was removed, he was left with scarring and a lopsided face.
Cruel kids at school called him Skeletor, after the He-Man character.
And when Natty became an adult, he was mentally still a teenager. But he never felt sorry for himself.
‘It makes me look handsome,’ he’d joke whenever anyone said anything mean.
In 2002, aged 23, he met Laurie, then 24.
In March 2004, they welcomed my first grandchild, Nathaniel Junior. ‘Oh Natty,’
I grinned at the hospital, bursting into proud tears.
They had three more boys, Leon in 2005, Ethan in 2006 and Lewis in 2011.
Despite Natty’s struggles, he thrived as a father.
He’d always found it hard to hold down a job, but being a dad came naturally.
Cooking, cleaning, playing and cuddles.
Only, in 2012, when Lewis was 10 months old, he and Laurie split.
Natty was heartbroken. He got sole custody, and I was nearby to help.
Even moving in with him and the boys during the 2020 COVID-19 lockdowns.
Of course, some days Natty struggled, but with my help, they got by.
In June 2022, Natty, then 43, was booked in for facial reconstruction surgery.
By now, his injury had put pressure on his right eye socket.
‘I can’t wait,’ he told me. ‘You deserve it,’ I smiled. All I ever wanted was for him to be happy.
Days later, me and Natty were relaxing in the front garden, enjoying the sun. ‘I fancy a curry,’ he said. He left to walk down the street to pick up a takeaway and I popped in the kitchen.
But minutes later, I heard a voice in the living room.
