“Who do you think is going to be the next to die, Aunty Emma?” asked my little niece as we were walking into the church for my brother’s funeral service.

Her matter-of-fact question echoed around the empty vestibule and I wondered how to respond to a five-year-old who had been forced to confront the issue of death, far earlier than she should have.

As it was, she came up with the answer herself. “I think it’s going to be Great Nan because she has lots of wrinkles and she’s really, really, really old.”

Death had been playing on the children’s minds a lot in those first ten days after my brother’s suicide. Not only had they learned their dad had died, playground gossip meant they’d also had to absorb the fact that he had chosen to die, and that his chosen method was hanging. Their carefree childhood in rural north Dorset was over.

While other little girls were playing tea parties with their dolls, my nieces were composing prayers to be read out at the funeral service.

My five-year-old niece wrote “Dear Daddy, I hope you have a good time at heven. Are men (sic),” while the words of her seven-year-old sister were far more stark: “Dear Lord, pleas help us to be alrite and to be happy the time has now come for Daddy to die. Armen (sic).” When she stood up and read the prayer at the funeral, flanked by her best friend for support, she reduced most of the mourners to tears.

But it was at the graveside that the harsh reality of my brother’s death hit home. Still carrying my five-year-old niece who was afraid of stepping on - and hurting - the bones of the dead people, I grabbed onto the branches of the nearby tree for support.

As my brother’s coffin was lowered into the ground, it was my sister-in-law who urged the children to remember the moment.

“You’re not going to see Daddy again,” she said.

“So you need to say goodbye now. This is your last chance to say goodbye.” In response my four-year-old nephew crouched down and peered solemnly into the freshly-dug grave.

“Bye bye Daddy, “ he said, waving down into the blackness. “Bye bye.”

Having young children attend a funeral service has always been a controversial issue, with some saying that it isn’t right to subject them to such sadness. Yet, it’s vitally important that they don’t feel excluded on the grounds of their age.

If children shut out their grief and lock their thoughts and emotions away, they risk becoming withdrawn and insecure, and developing low self-esteem. And with 24,000 newly bereaved children in the UK every year, that’s a lot of children who need professional support to guide them through the toughest of times.

That’s one of the reasons we tried to make April 8, 2009 – the day we buried my brother – as positive as possible.

Despite the shock and the grief and the heartache and the numbness, it was, from what I can remember, a beautiful day.

It started with a full-English at my sister-in-law’s before the children changed into their best party outfits and we walked the short distance to the village church, where my niece made her accurate prediction that my nan would be the next to die.

Once inside, a lone butterfly hovered over the children for the duration of the service, bringing a sense of peace to the affair.

And at the wake, we drank outside in the pub garden, the children running and laughing and having piggy back races, while inside a slideshow of Matt’s life was running on loop. Hours later, after the last funeral goers had drifted away, we ate dinner in the pub, flanked by my brother’s best friends.

It turned out to be a day where the children didn’t stop giggling and one that my brother, unwittingly the centre of attention, would have enjoyed.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my Matt this week as the countdown to May 11 creeps ever closer. As of tomorrow, there are just four weeks until the big day.

I’ve upped the gym sessions to four times a week and Mario and I have now ramped up the walking. Last Saturday, we pulled on the waterproofs and headed out for a 12km walk in non-stop torrential rain, while on Sunday we powered 3km up a steep hill before going onto walk another 14km.

This weekend we’re heading for the mountains, where we’re planning to cover 50km over the course of the two days. The path will be steep and climbing will be involved but, my reasoning, the harder I train now, the easier it will be to walk 60km on the day.

As for the fundraising, loud-mouthed, talkative me has been stunned into silence this week by the number of people that have sponsored me without being prompted. I’ve already thanked people via Facebook, and wish I could do the same for the two anonymous donors who, between them, gave £40.

I try to imagine their life story and the reasons they’re supporting a stranger. While I walk, I conjure up imaginary conversations, much like I used to do with my brother after his death. But, as I’ve learned over the years, some questions will always goes unanswered.

The Big Em and M Challenge is now at £1,430, which means I need just £570 to meet my £2,000 target. Winston’s Wish  provides valuable support for bereaved children. Please sponsor me here