The phone rings from school.
“Mum, I’m done for the day. On my way home.”
The journey should take thirty minutes. An hour and a half passes. I call.
“Hello?”
In the backgroundshouting, swearing, chaos.
“Where are you?”
“Be there soon, wait.”
The line goes dead. I call again. No signal.
Mothers, how long does it take for your mind to spiraluntil your throat tightens and your hands shake? For me, ten seconds. Maybe less.
Then imagination takes overhes been in a fight. Mugged. Something terrible. Something irreversible.
Pull on a coat. Run. Where? Follow the bus route. Check nearby buildings. Call his teacher. No, the police first. NoUncle Mark, the detective from Scotland Yard. Can they track a switched-off phone?
You pace between the front and back windows, scanning the street. Dial again. Still no signal.
Twenty more agonising minutes.
Jeans. Sweater. Passport. Keys. Frantically searching for your phonewhere is it? Tear the flat apart. Its vanished. Yank the duvet off the bed. Something stops you rifling through the laundry. Oh. The phone. Oh, youve been clutching it the whole time.
Grab your coat. Dont cry. Dont you dare cry. God, I shouted at him this morning for not making his bed. What does the bed even matter? WHAT DOES IT MATTER, YOU FOOL? Never, never scold him again. My boy, my boy.
The intercom buzzes.
“Yes?”
“Special delivery for Her Majestys finest!”
“Where were you?!”
“Mum, just let me in, people are waiting,” the cheeky recruit pleads.
Shrug off the coat. Stomp to the door. “Ill kill him,” you promise darkly.
The lift opens. A lanky teen, towering, backpack sagging. His jacket pocket oddly bulky.
“Where. Were. You?” you hiss like a dragon.
“Mum, stayed late for history club.”
“You couldnt text?”
“Last-minute thing. Didnt think. Then the bell went.”
“One message! So I wouldnt panic?”
“You know phones arent allowed in class!”
“You called me laterI heard swearing!”
“Oh, just some drunks arguing at the bus stop. Tried to tell you, but my battery died.”
Gasping, speechless.
“Here,” he says, pulling a melting ice cream from his pocket. Grinning. Your grin. His grandfathers.
Three years ago, when money was tight, hed leave with a fiver to see friends. Always came back with a chocolate barno idea how he saved enough. Handed it over on the doorstep.
“Mum, this is for you.”
For me. Mine. About me.
Thisthis is forever. For all my blessed, joy-lit years of motherhood.
If only I could stop imagining the worst.
