The phone ringsits my son calling from school.
“Mum, Im done. On my way home.”
Its a half-hour trip. An hour and a half later, I call him back.
“Hello?”
In the backgroundshouting, swearing, chaos.
“Where *are* you?”
“Be there soon, wait for me.”
Click. He hangs up.
I ring again. No answer. Phone switched off.
Mums, how long does it take for your mind to spiralfor your throat to tighten and your hands to shake?
For me? Ten seconds. Maybe less.
Then the imagination kicks in. Got into a fight. Mugged. Something terrible. Something irreversible.
Throw on a coat. Run. Where? Follow the bus route. Check every alley, every block. Call his teacher. No, call the police first. No, call our family friend, the detective from Scotland Yard. Can they trace a switched-off phone?
I pace between the front windows, back and forth, checking the street. Dialling again and again. Still nothing.
Twenty more minutes of this.
Pull on jeans. A jumper. Grab my ID. Keys. Tear the flat apart looking for my phoneonly to realise Ive been *holding* it the whole time.
Shrug into my coat. Dont cry. *Dont cry.* God, I yelled at him this morning for not making his bed. Stupid, stupid bed. Never again. Never, never.
The intercom buzzes.
“Yes?”
“Special delivery from Her Majestys finest!”
“Where *were* you?!”
“Mum, just open the door, people are waiting,” he says, laughing.
I toss the coat aside, march to the door. *Im going to kill him.*
The lift dings. Out he stridessix-foot-something, backpack weighing him down, his jacket pocket suspiciously bulging.
“Where. Were. You?” I hiss like a dragon.
“Stayed late for history club.”
“You couldnt *text* me?”
“All a bit last minute. By the time I thought of it, class had started.”
“And later? When you called? There was swearing in the background!”
“Oh, just some blokes arguing at the bus stop. Tried to tell you, but my phone died.”
I stand there, breathless.
Thenhe grins. Reaches into his pocket. “Brought you this.”
A chocolate bar.
Three years ago, when money was tight, hed go out with mates, take a fiver, and come back with sweets for me. Always found a way.
“Mum, this is for you.”
For me. Mine. My boy.
Thisthis is forever. The whole beautiful, maddening, heart-bursting joy of motherhood.
Now if only I could stop imagining the worst every time hes late.
