The phone rings from school.
“Mum, I’m done. Coming home now.”
The journey home should take thirty minutes. An hour and a half passes. I call.
“Hello?”
In the backgroundshouting, swearing, chaos.
“Where are you?”
“Be there soon, wait.”
And the line goes dead.
I call again. No answer.
Mothers, how long does it take for your mind to spiraluntil your throat tightens and your hands shake?
For me, ten seconds. Maybe a little more.
Then imagination runs wilda fight, an attack, a robbery. Something terrible. Something irreversible.
Dress. Run. Where? Follow the bus route. Check every doorway nearby. Call the form tutor. No, the police first. Nofamily friend, that detective from Scotland Yard. Can they track a switched-off phone?
You watch the approaches to the building. Two entrancesdashing between rooms, dialling again and again. Still no answer.
Twenty more minutes of unbearable waiting.
Pull on jeans. A jumper. Grab your passport. Keys. Tear through the flat hunting for your phone, tossing everything aside. Gone, as if vanished. Yank the blanket off the bedsomething stops you. Ah. The phone. In your hand the whole time.
Snatch your coat from the hook. Dont cry. Dont you dare cry. God, I shouted at him this morning for not making his bed. What does the bed matter? WHAT DOES IT MATTER, YOU FOOL? Never, never scold him again. My boy, my boy.
The intercom buzzes.
“Yes?”
“Her Majestys Royal Guard reporting for duty!”
“Where have you been?!”
“Mum, open uppeople are waiting,” the royal guard mutters.
Shrug off the coat. March to the door.
“Ill kill him,” you vow grimly.
The lift opens. A lanky giant, towering, a heavy rucksack slung over his shoulder. His jacket pocket bulges oddly.
“Where were you?” you hiss like a dragon.
“Mum, I stayed late for extra history.”
“You couldnt tell me?”
“Everything happened so fast. By the time I realised, the bell had gone.”
“A text? So I wouldnt worry?”
“You know were not allowed phones in class!”
“You called me backthere was swearing!”
“Oh, just drunks arguing at the bus stop. I tried to tell you, but my battery died.”
Stand there, gulping air.
“Here.” He pulls an ice cream from his pocket. Grins wide.
That 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 saved it. But alwayson the doorstep, holding it out.
“Mum, this is for you.”
For me, yes. Mine, all mine.
Thisfor life. For all my blessed, joy-lit years of motherhood.
If only I could stop myself from spiralling like this.
