**Diary Entry**
The phone ringsschool calling.
“Mum, Im done. On my way home.”
Homes a thirty-minute bus ride. An hour and a half passes. I call.
“Hello?”
In the backgroundshouting, swearing, chaos.
“Where are you?”
“Be there soon, just wait.”
The line goes dead.
I call back. No signal.
How long does it take for a mothers mind to spiralthroat tight, hands shaking?
For me? Ten seconds. Maybe less.
Then the dread sets in. A fight? Mugged? Something worse. Something irreversible.
I grab my coat. Where do I even go? Trace the bus route. Check the nearby estates. Call his form tutor? Nopolice first. No, better ring Tom, our family friend from the Met. Can they trace a switched-off phone?
I pace between rooms, watching both entrances. Dial again. Still nothing. Another twenty minutes of sickening silence.
Jeans. Jumper. Passport. Keys. Tear the flat apart looking for my phonewhere is it? Fling blankets aside. Somethings in the way. Oh. My phone. In my hand the whole time.
Shrug on my coat. Dont cry. Dont you dare. Christ, I shouted at him this morning for an unmade bed. What does a bloody bed matter? WHAT DOES IT MATTER, YOU FOOL? Never again. Never. My boy.
The intercom buzzes.
“Yes?”
“Special delivery for Her Majestys finest!”
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”
“Mum, just open the doorpeople are waiting,” says the cheeky git.
I toss my coat aside. March to the door. “Ill kill him,” I think grimly.
The lift opens. There he islanky as a lamppost, backpack sagging, jacket pocket bulging.
“Where. Were. You?” I hiss.
“Mum, stayed late for history club.”
“You couldnt text?”
“All a bit last-minute. By the time I realised, the bell had gone.”
“A quick call? So I didnt panic?”
“You always say no phones in class!”
“I heard swearing when you rang!”
“Oh, that was just some drunks at the bus stop arguing. Tried to tell you, but my battery died.”
I stand there, gasping.
“Here.” He pulls a Cornetto from his pocket. Grins.
That smilemine. His grandfathers.
Three years ago, when money was tight, hed take a fiver to hang with mates. Always came back with a Dairy Milk. No idea how he saved the quid. But hed hand it over on the doorstep.
“Mum. For you.”
For me. Mine. About me.
Thisthis is forever. Every blessed, heart-swelling second of being his mum.
If only I could stop the panicking.
