**Helplessness and Confusion**
I stepped out of the church feeling low, though a flicker of hope remained. Id begged God for a childpraying, weeping. Over ten years of marriage to James, and still no baby. How many doctors had we seen? All said the same: *Youre healthy, these things take time just wait.*
But how much longer, James? Id ask, searching his face. A family isnt complete without a child.
James ached for an heir too. His business thrivedwe lacked for nothing, except this one thing.
What about adoption? he suggested gently.
No, Id shake my head. I want to carry my own. Why cant I, if the doctors say Im fine?
Then, at lastperhaps God took pityI fell pregnant. The joy was indescribable. Even the difficult pregnancy couldnt dim it. Id endure anything for this long-awaited child.
Oliver was born frail, often ill. We hovered over him, shielding him from every riskno playgrounds, barely any contact with other children. Only the best for our boy: by four, he had a tablet; by seven, an expensive phone. Whatever he wanted, we gave.
But as he grew, so did his temper.
James worked long hours. I stayed homecooking Olivers meals, fetching him from school. If I dared serve something he didnt fancy, hed scowl:
What is this rubbish? Im not eating it. Hed dump salt into the bowl, demanding his favourite soup instead.
At thirteen, he became unbearable. Its just a phase, James would say, brushing it off.
One evening, James walked in with a gift. New phone for you, son.
Oliver snatched it, then moments later*slam!*it flew across the room. This is garbage! I told you which one I wanted. Only losers carry this model!
We exchanged bewildered glances.
Told you, I muttered. James had no reply.
Clothes, shoeswe learned not to buy without his approval. Then the school called.
Mrs. Hart, the teacher began, we need to discuss Olivers behaviour. He insults staff, disrupts lessons, brags about knowing his rights. He loans out his phone, then demands paymentor makes others do his homework.
Shame burned through me.
Please, the teacher urged, rein him in.
I apologised, numb. Walking home, I fought the urge to slap himsomething Id never imagined feeling.
*Where did we go wrong? We adored him, gave him everything. How did love breed such cruelty?*
Our neighbours, the Wilsons, had four well-mannered children. Their eldest boys even helped me carry shopping. Once, I asked Vera her secret.
Oh, its normal for us, she smiled. My husband was one of sixsays a full house breeds harmony. The kids help each other.
I envied her. Not once had I heard a harsh word from their lot.
That afternoon, Oliver stormed in, kicking off his trainers. Schools rubbish. And MumI *told* you to keep my door shut!
I bit my tongue, still raw from the teachers words.
Later, I found him in his room*slashing* his expensive jacket with scissors, smirking. Like it? Since you *had* to visit school Buy me a better one, or Ill wreck the next thing too.
I snapped. The slap rang out before I knew it. His shock twisted into rage.
Right. Youll regret that. He dialled 999. Police? My mum just hit me. Hurry.
The officer frowned, taking in our tidy home. Bit of a row, lad? Sort it out.
No! Oliver shrieked. I know my rights! Arrest her!
The baffled man glanced at me.
Take him, I whispered. Maybe this will change something.
Two days later, social services arrived. They listenedto Olivers demands, to my exhaustionthen sighed. Pack a bag, Oliver. Youre coming with us.
Where?
Temporary care. Since youre abused here.
His bravado crumpled. As the door closed, I sank into a chair.
James I never thought theyd take him. But its our only chance.
Next day, Oliver called, whining. Mum, get me out! The foods awfulthey took my stuff!
We cant. Theyve restricted our rights for two weeks. I hung up.
The social worker had been kind. Seen this before. Kids who get everythingturn cruel because nothing costs them.
When James finally fetched him, Oliver was subdued. Dad am I staying?
Up to you.
I want to stay.
At home, he breathed deep. Its so good here Mum, DadIm sorry. I was horrible.
Welcome home, son, I said softly. Dinners ready.
