**Diary Entry**
The school calls.
“Mum, I’m done. Heading home now.”
The journey should take thirty minutes. An hour and a half later, I ring again.
“Hello?”
In the backgroundshouting, swearing, chaos.
“Where are you?”
“Be there soon, wait for me.”
Then the line goes dead.
I call back. No signal.
Mothers, how long does it take for you to spiral into that state where your throat tightens and your hands wont stop shaking?
For meten seconds. Maybe less.
Then my imagination runs wildgot into a fight. Mugged. Something terrible. Something irreversible.
Throw on a coat. Run. Where? Follow the bus route. Check nearby flats. Call the teacher? No, the police first. Nofamily friend, that detective from Scotland Yard. Track his phone. Can they even do that if its switched off?
Watching the street from the window. Two exits, pacing between rooms. Calling again. Still nothing.
Another twenty minutes of unbearable waiting.
Pull on jeans. A jumper. Grab my passport. Keys. Tearing the flat apart looking for my phonewhere is it? Under the bedsheets? No. Wait. Its in my hand. Ive been clutching it the whole time.
Snatch my coat from the hook. Dont cry. Dont you dare cry. God, I shouted at him this morning for not making his bed. Stupid, stupid bed! Ill never scold him again. Never. My boy. My sweet boy.
The intercom buzzes.
“Yes?”
“Special delivery from the French Foreign Legion!”
“Where were you?!”
“Mum, just open the door, people are waiting,” the “legionnaire” mutters.
Shrug off the coat. March to the door.
“Ill kill him,” I vow darkly.
Out steps a lanky giant, a backpack slung over his shoulder, his jacket pocket bulging suspiciously.
“Where *were* you?” I hiss like a dragon.
“Mum, I stayed behind for extra history.”
“You couldnt *tell* me?”
“It was sort of last-minute. By the time I realised, the bell had gone.”
“A text? So I wouldnt panic?”
“You know phones arent allowed in class!”
“But you called me laterI heard people swearing!”
“Oh, that was just some drunks arguing at the bus stop. I tried to tell you, but my battery died.”
Standing there, gasping for air.
“Here,” he says, pulling an ice cream from his pocket. Grinning wide, just like my father used to.
Three years ago, when money was tight, hed go out with mates, take a fiver, and somehow return with a bar of chocolate. Always for me.
“Mum, this is for you.”
For me. Mine. About me.
Thisthis is for life. My blessed, joy-lit life as his mother.
If only I could stop imagining the worst…
