I was in bed. My husband was downstairs watching TV. At quarter to 10 someone was knocking at the door. Then my husband was screaming my name. Our son, Steven, had been killed - his car was hit by a stolen vehicle. I felt complete numbness.

Afterwards, I needed to keep my surviving children close. I didn't want them going out of the house. It's unreasonable, I know, but I felt I could protect them if they were with me. You realise you can be the best, most observant driver, it's other idiots who will cause devastation.

You see a video in your head. You weren't actually there, so you assemble it from what the police and witnesses said. Steven must have left home at 7.15pm, got to the ATM at 20 past, went to get petrol at Morrisons at 25 past. Just after half past, my son was dead.

In bed, this video constantly plays in my mind. What if he had stayed a few more seconds at the petrol pump?

I've tried to enjoy life as best I can. I've taken joy from what's around me, but I won't know what happiness is any more. I did know. You don't expect to bury your children.

People think ultimately you will be as you were. You won't. A broken leg you get over. But would you want to get over this? Wouldn't that be a betrayal?

There's a perception in life: you get what you deserve. No - people sometimes get what they don't deserve.