On Jan. 28, 2020, Coker men’s lacrosse freshman Garrett Bakhsh died after a nightclub shooting the previous morning in Hartsville, S.C. He was 18.

Today would have been Bakhsh’s 21st birthday. On behalf of the Garrett Tazwell Bakhsh Memorial Fund, his mother, Natalie, wrote this article.

It’s 2 a.m. The phone rings. My husband answers it and I hear Kaden Ross screaming, “Mr. Brad, Mr. Brad. Garrett got shot.” Then I hear, “in the head.”

I immediately jump out of bed, get on my knees and begin praying. I grab the phone to look for flights to Florence, S.C. There aren’t any until 8 a.m. That’s too late. I have to get there as soon as possible.

I’m frantic. I’m hysterical. I grab a small bag and throw some clothes in there. We have to drive.

The kids are sleeping. What do we do with them? The dog has to go somewhere too. We figure those things out, then jump in the car for the long ride.

Thoughts run through my head. I see his face in my mind. Oh my lord, is he in pain? How much pain is he in? Will I make it in time? How bad is it?

I begin driving and we get another call that he is being transferred to a trauma center. Is this good or bad? I ask my husband to call the hospital, but he says that they can’t tell us anything. Being determined to find out any information, I call anyway. Finally, I get on the line with a nurse. For some instinctual reason I ask, “Is my son on life support?”

“Sweetheart,” she replies and then stumbles over her words for a second.

At that moment, I know this is going to be the worst day of my life.

We arrive shortly after 9 a.m. after the six-and-a-half-hour drive from Maryland to South Carolina. We begin walking into the hospital and are shown where to go. Coach O (then-Coker coach David Olliver) comes out to greet us and the look on his face says it all. Disbelief fills his face, his gait, his mind.

We slowly walk into the room, and there is our big strong boy. Our first son, Garrett. He had just gotten back to college from Christmas break. We had so much fun that break. He drove us to Misty Valley Farms to get the Christmas tree. His dad and I sat in the back and giggled while he drove us back home to put it up.

Now there he lay in that hospital bed, his face bruised, his head wrapped and tubes everywhere. The doctor tells us the prognosis is extremely grim. I am desperate, so I ask for a second opinion. I touch his face, rub his feet, his legs. I long to touch his warm body for as long as I can.

Three days go by. My son, he fights so hard. His friends fill the room. His family never leaves his side. They all gather in disbelief. This young Maryland boy couldn’t have been prouder. Lacrosse scholarship, criminal justice degree, U.S. Marshal — all washed away in a second of time.

My first son, never be forgotten. Twenty-one years ago today, I saw your face for the first time. Happy birthday.