The phone rings from school.
Mum, I’m done. On my way home.
It takes thirty minutes to get home. 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 answer.
Mothers, how long does it take for you to spiral into that state where your throat tightens and your hands wont stop shaking?
For me? Exactly ten seconds. Maybe a little more.
Then the mind racesgot into a fight. Mugged. Something terrible. Something irreversible.
Get dressed. Run. Where? Follow the bus route. Check the nearby flats. Call the form tutor. No, the police first. No, call the family friend, the detective from Scotland Yard. Track his phone. Can they even trace it if its switched off?
Scan the approaches to the building. Two entrances, darting from room to room. Dialing again. And again. No answer.
Another twenty minutes of gnawing dread.
Pull on jeans. A jumper. Grab the passport. Keys. Frantically search the flat for the phone. Tear everything apart. Gone, vanished. Yank the duvet off the bed. Something stops you from rummaging further. Oh, the phone. Oh, youve been clutching it the whole time.
Snatch the coat from the hook. Dont cry. Dont you dare cry. God, I shouted at him this morning for not making the bed. Who cares about the bed? WHO CARES, YOU FOOL! Never, never scold him again. My boy, my boy.
The intercom buzzes.
Yes?
The British Foreign Legion salutes you!
WHERE WERE YOU???
Mum, let us in, people are waiting, the British Foreign Legion backtracks.
Shrug off the coat. March to the door.
Ill kill him, I vow grimly.
Out steps a lanky, six-foot-tall beanpole. A backpack like an anchor on his shoulders. His jacket pocket suspiciously bulging.
Where were you? I hiss like a dragon.
Mum, I stayed late for history club.
And you couldnt tell me?
It was spontaneous. Didnt have time. By the time I remembered, the bell had gone.
A text? So I wouldnt worry?
Mum, you know we cant use phones in class!
You called me later, and there was swearing!
Oh, just some drunks arguing at the bus stop. Wanted to tell you, but my phone died.
I stand there, gulping air.
This is for you. He pulls an ice cream from his pocket. Grins wide, so wide.
His smile is mine. And his grandfathers.
Three years ago, when money was tight, hed go out with friends, taking just a fiver. Always came back with a bar of chocolate. No idea how he saved it. But every time, hed hand it to me at the door.
Mum, this is for you.
For me, yes. Mine, about me.
Thisfor life. For this blessed, joy-lit life of motherhood.
If only I could learn not to spiral so hard.
