**Mum, Don’t Go**
After dinner, Mum sat beside seven-year-old Charlie and draped an arm over his shoulders. He stiffened. The last time she’d done this, she’d told him she was going away on a business trip, leaving him with her friend, Auntie Claire. The problem was Auntie Claire’s daughter, Lizzie—a horrid, stuck-up girl who tattled on him constantly and called him a runt.
“Are you going away again? I don’t want to stay with Auntie Claire. Lizzie’s awful,” Charlie said, glaring up at her.
Mum smiled and ruffled his messy hair. Charlie gathered his courage.
“Mum, please take me with you,” he pleaded.
“I can’t. I’ll be working all day. What would you even do alone?” She stood abruptly and paced the room, restless.
“You said I’m big now. I don’t want to stay with Auntie Claire and Lizzie. Can’t I just stay home?”
“Stop whinging!” she snapped. “You’re too young to stay alone. What if something happens? If you won’t go to Auntie Claire’s, I’ll take you to Granny’s.”
“In Bristol?” Charlie’s eyes lit up.
“No. Your other granny—your dad’s mum.”
Charlie blinked. He never knew he had another granny. He’d never met her.
“I don’t want to,” he muttered, just in case.
“I wasn’t asking. Pack your schoolbooks and whatever else you want to bring. I’ll get your clothes ready.”
Charlie’s chest tightened. Last time, when Mum left him with Auntie Claire, he hadn’t needed packed bags. That meant she wasn’t coming back soon.
“I don’t want to go anywhere with bags. Can’t I just go with you?” he begged, voice trembling.
“Enough! Boys don’t cry.”
“I’m a kid, not a boy,” he sniffled.
The next morning, he dressed slowly, hoping she’d change her mind or lose patience and let him stay home. Instead, she shouted that the taxi was waiting and they’d miss breakfast because of him.
They rode across town, then took the lift up to the eleventh floor. The doors opened onto a dim corridor, and Mum nudged him toward a heavy metal door.
A woman who looked nothing like a granny answered. She wore a long red robe embroidered with golden pheasants, her hair piled into an elaborate updo. Her lips curled in disgust, as if she’d spotted a rat. Mum always screamed at rats—this woman didn’t scream, but her expression promised nothing good.
Most adults cooed over him—”Who’s this handsome boy?” or “Aren’t you sweet?” This woman just stared, eyes flicking between him and Mum.
“Hello, Margaret. Thank you for taking Charlie. Here’s his clothes, his routine, his school address…”
“When will you be back from your… so-called *business trip*?” Her voice was low and rough, like a man’s.
*Maybe she is a man in disguise,* Charlie thought.
“A week. Maybe sooner,” Mum said.
Charlie’s stomach dropped. He looked up at her, eyes brimming with hurt and betrayal.
“Don’t go. Mum, please take me,” he begged, clutching her coat.
Margaret’s bony hands dug into his shoulders, startling him into letting go. Mum shut the door behind her. Charlie screamed, yanking at the handle.
“Quiet!” Margaret barked, releasing him. “Enough of this nonsense. Take your shoes off. I hope your mum remembered your slippers—I won’t waste my pension on you.” She drifted away, leaving him alone in the hallway.
Hot and stubborn, he refused to undress, slumping against the door. His legs cramped. Eventually, he unzipped his jacket, too short to reach the hook, and left it crumpled on the shoe bench. He dug out his slippers—the sight of them made him sob.
When he trudged into the kitchen, Margaret was smoking at the table. Charlie gaped. He’d never seen a granny smoke before.
“My name is Margaret Winifred. Can you manage that?” She waved a hand. “Just call me Margo.”
She stubbed out her cigarette like she was crushing a bug, then coughed, something rattling wetly in her chest.
How long had he lived here? It felt like forever. They barely spoke. She took him to school twice before he started going alone. She smoked, watched telly all day.
One afternoon, he came home to find his bag packed in the hallway.
“Is Mum back?” he asked, hopeful.
“No.”
The next morning, Margo drove him to a two-storey building that looked like an oversized nursery. He didn’t catch the name above the door. He sat sweating in a corridor while Margo spoke to the headmaster.
Then she left without a glance. The headmaster took his hand, leading him down a long hall past doors buzzing with children’s voices. They climbed to the second floor, entering a room with ten beds in neat rows.
The headmaster pointed to one and left. Before Charlie could breathe, four boys walked in. Two were much older. Four sets of eyes pinned him.
“New kid, what’s your name?” the eldest asked.
“Did your mum lose custody, or did a car hit her?” another sneered.
“She’s on a business trip,” Charlie squeaked.
They laughed. “We’ve heard *that* before. She found a new bloke and dumped you here so you wouldn’t cramp her style.”
“She’s coming back—”
They upended his bag, scattering his things. They snatched his backpack, dividing his clothes and books between themselves.
Charlie fought, but what could one small boy do against four? They shoved him, spat insults. Fury made him brave—he headbutted one in the stomach, slamming him into the wall. The others pounced.
It might have ended badly if Auntie Mo, the caretaker, hadn’t barged in, brandishing a mop.
That night, they dragged a blanket over his head and beat him. Humiliated, terrified, he wet himself. The next morning, they paraded his soiled sheets, howling with laughter.
Life in the care home was hell. Even Margo’s flat seemed like paradise now. He fought constantly, got punished constantly. He hid in corners, crying silently for Mum.
When he got older, he ran away twice—only to be dragged back from trains, punished harder. Auntie Mo pitied him. He hid in her cleaning cupboard among mops and buckets.
“Hold on, love. It’ll pass. Don’t let it turn you bitter. There’s good people out there,” she’d say.
When he aged out, she gave him her address and number.
“Visit me. I’ll help however I can. Stay away from bad crowds,” she warned. “What’ll you do now?”
“Work and study,” he said firmly.
“Good lad. Can’t get far without an education these days.”
After revelling in freedom—gorging on ice cream, pizza, and fizzy drinks—he visited Auntie Mo. She fed him soup, clucking over his rough start.
Then they gave him a flat—dingy, reeking of stale beer and cigarettes. He peeled off greasy wallpaper. Auntie Mo donated old curtains and chipped plates. And so his life began. He got a factory job, applied to university for engineering.
During winter exams, he met Milly, a bright-eyed girl. Her parents forbade her from seeing him when they learned he’d grown up in care.
But Milly stayed. She’d weep, saying her parents threatened to move her away if she didn’t leave him.
“Then move in with me. I earn enough. We’ll manage.”
After one explosive row, she did. Her parents called the police, but Charlie’s glowing work reference cleared him. They were left alone.
For the first time, he had a family. Eventually, Milly’s parents demanded to meet him. Charlie dressed carefully.
“You look like a groom,” Milly teased.
“I *am* a groom.”
When the doorbell rang, Milly answered. She returned, puzzled.
“It’s for you.”
“Who?”
“Go see. Some woman says she’s your mum.”
The word *Mum* conjures warmth—soft hands, gentle eyes. But Charlie remembered only tears. Resentment eclipsed everything else. He hadn’t seen her since she’d abandoned him with Margo.
He stepped into the hall. A woman stood there—indeterminately aged, could be fifty, could be seventy. Nothing stirred inside him.
“You don’t recognise me, Charlie? I’m your mum,” she said, voice quivering.
“I don’t know you,” he said flatly.
She babbled, words tumbling over each other:
“I failed you. I know you’ve forgotten me. I just wanted to see you. You’re all grown now. I wouldn’t have recognised you on the street.”
“Years later, watching his own son sleep, Charlie wondered if he could ever truly forgive her—but the ache in his chest told him that some wounds never fully heal.
