The phone ringsschool calling.
“Mum, I’m done for the day. On my way home.”
The trip should take thirty minutes. An hour and a half passes. I call.
“Hello?”
In the backgroundshouting, swearing, chaos.
“Where are you?”
“Be there soon, just wait.”
The line goes dead.
I call back. No answer.
Mothers, how long does it take for dread to coil in your throat, for your hands to shake so badly you cant hold anything?
For meten seconds. Maybe less.
Then the mind spiralsa fight, an attack, a robbery. Something terrible. Something irreversible.
Clothes on. Out the door. Where? Follow the bus route. Check every alley, every stairwell. Call the form tutor? Nothe police first. No, the family friend, the detective from Scotland Yard. Can they track a switched-off phone?
You pace between windows, watching the street. Two entrancesback and forth, back and forth. Dial again. And again. No answer.
Twenty more minutes of gnawing fear.
Jeans. Jumper. Passport. Keys. Tearing the flat apart for your phone. Rummaging through drawerswhere is it? Yanking back the bedsheet. Something in the wayoh. The phone. Still clenched in your hand.
Grab the coat. Dont cry. Dont you dare cry. God, I shouted at him this morning for leaving the bed unmade. Who cares about the bed? WHO CARES, YOU FOOL? Never, never scold him again. My boy. My sweet boy.
The intercom buzzes.
“Yes?”
“Special delivery for Her Majestys finest!”
“Where have you been?!”
“Mum, just open the doorpeople are waiting,” the cheeky soldier pleads.
Shrug off the coat. Stride to the door.
“Ill kill him,” you vow, dark and quiet.
The lift doors open. A gangly giant, towering, backpack slung heavy. His coat pocket bulging.
“Where. Were. You?”the words hiss out like a furious dragon.
“Mum, I stayed behind for extra history.”
“You couldnt *tell* me?”
“It was last-minute. Then the bell rang. By the time I realised”
“A text? So I wouldnt panic?”
“Mum, you *know* we cant use phones in class!”
“You called methere was swearing in the background!”
“Oh, that? Just some drunks arguing at the bus stop. I meant to say, but my battery died.”
You stand there, gulping air.
“Here.” From his pocketan ice cream. And that grin. Wide, bright.
His smile is mine. His grandfathers.
Three years ago, when money was tight, hed go out with mates, take a fiver. Come back with a bar of chocolate. No idea how he saved it. But alwayschocolate in hand on the doorstep.
“Mum. This is for you.”
For me. Mine. About me.
Thisthis is forever. For all my blessed, heart-cracked, love-drenched days as his mother.
If only I could stop the fear from spiralling…
