Samira Calehr wrapped her arms around her 11-year-old son, who had been oddly agitated for days, bombarding her with questions about death, about his soul, about God.

The next morning, she would drop Miguel and his older brother, Shaka, at Schiphol airport so they could catch Malaysia Airlines flight MH17, the first leg of their journey to Bali to visit their grandmother.

The normally cheerful, well-travelled boy should have been excited. His silver suitcase was in the living room, ready to go. Jetskiing and surfing in paradise awaited. But something was not right.

A day earlier, while playing soccer, Miguel had burst out: "How would you choose to die? What would happen to my body if I was buried? Would I not feel anything because our souls go back to God?"

And now, the night before his big trip, Miguel refused to let go of his mother.

"He's just going to miss me," she told herself. So she stretched out beside him and held him all night.

It was 11pm on Wednesday July 16. Miguel, Shaka and the 296 other people on board MH17 had around 15 hours left to live.

The next morning, Mrs Calehr and her friend Aan ushered her sons on to the train to the airport. They were joking and laughing.

Shaka, 19, had just finished his first year of college, where he was studying textile engineering, and promised to keep an eye on Miguel. Their other brother, Mika, 16, had not been able to get a seat on the flight and would travel to Bali the next day.

At the check-in counter, Mrs Calehr fussed over her boys' luggage. Shaka, meanwhile, realised he had forgotten to pack socks. His mother promised to buy him some and send them along with Mika.

Finally, they were outside customs. The boys hugged their mother, said goodbye and walked towards passport control.

Suddenly, Miguel whirled around and ran back, throwing his arms around his mother.

"Mama, I'm going to miss you," he said. "What will happen if the airplane crashes?"

"What was this all about?" she wondered.

"Don't say that," she said, squeezing him. "Everything will be OK."

Shaka tried to reassure them both. "I will take care of him," he told his mother. "He's my baby."

She watched the two boys walk away. But Miguel kept looking back at his mother. His big brown eyes looked sad.

Then he vanished from view.

MH17 took off at around 12.15pm on what should have been a flight of 11 hours, 45 minutes.

It lasted two hours.

Mrs Calehr had just finished buying Shaka's socks when her phone rang. It was her friend Aan. "Where are you?" he screamed. "The plane crashed!"

She made it home just in time to faint.

She now grapples with the what-ifs, the astronomical odds, the realisation that the world she knew became alien in the blink of an eye. She thinks about how her baby boy seemed to sense that his time on earth was running short. She imagines the futures that will never be: Shaka's dream of becoming a textile engineer, gone. Miguel's dream of becoming a go-kart racing driver, gone.

How could he have known? How could she have known?

"I should have listened to him," she says softly. "I should have listened to him."