The phone rings from school.
Mum, Im done. On my way home.
It should take thirty minutes. An hour and a half passes. I call.
Hello?
In the backgroundshouting, swearing, chaos.
Where are you?
Be home soon, wait.
The line goes dead.
I call again. No answer.
Mothers, how long does it take for you to spiral until your throat tightens and your hands shake?
For me? Ten seconds. Maybe less.
Then the imagination takes overhes in a fight. Hes been attacked. Robbed. Something terrible. Something irreversible.
Get dressed. Run. Where? Follow the bus route. Search the nearby estates. Call his teacher. No, the police first. Nocall the family friend, that detective from Scotland Yard. Track his phone. Can they even trace it if its switched off?
You pace between the windows, checking the street. Front and back, darting from room to room. Redialing. Again. Still nothing.
Twenty more agonising minutes crawl by.
Jeans. Jumper. Passport. Keys. You tear through the flat, frantic, searching for your phone. Ransacking drawers. Nothing. Yanking the duvet aside. Something stops youoh. The phone. Oh. Youve been clutching it this whole time.
Grab the coat from the hook. Dont cry. Dont you dare cry. Christ, I shouted at him this morning for not making his bed. That stupid bed! THAT STUPID BLOODY BED, YOU FOOL! Never again. Never scold him again. My boy. My boy.
The intercom buzzes.
Yes?
The SAS sends their regards!
Where have you been???
Mum, just open the door, people are waiting, the SAS operative mutters, deflated.
Shrug off the coat. March to the door.
Ill kill him, you vow, darkly.
The lift doors open. A lanky tower of a boy. A backpack that looks like its stuffed with bricks. His jacket pocket suspiciously bulging.
Where were you? you hiss like a dragon.
Mum, I stayed behind for extra history.
And you couldnt text?
It was last-minute. Didnt have time. Then the bell went.
A quick message? So I wouldnt panic?
Mum, you know phones arent allowed 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 battery died.
You stand there, gulping air.
This is for you. He pulls an ice cream from his pocket. Grins wide.
His smilemine. My fathers.
Three years ago, when money was tight, hed go out with friends, take a fiver. Come back with a chocolate bar. No idea how he managed it. But he always did. Handing it over on the doorstep.
Mum, this is for you.
For me. Yes. Mine. About me.
Thisfor life. For this blessed, shining life of motherhood.
If only I could stop spiralling like this.
