Forgive me, son.
This is the story of a less-than-perfect family, as people tend to say around here. A mother raising her son alone, divorced before her little boy even turned one. Now the boy is fourteen; shes thirty-four, working long hours as a bookkeeper for a small local company.
The past year has been nothing short of a nightmare. Up until Year Five, her son did fairly well at school, but then the grades started slipping. And things only went downhill from there. Her main hope was that Alex would at least finish his GCSEs and get himself some sort of trade.
There were endless calls from the school. The Head of Year made no effort to spare her feelings, scolding her in front of a room full of teachers, each one eager to mention Alexs misbehaviour and his lack of effort. Crushed and frustrated, she would trudge home afterwards, overcome with helplessness. Her complaints and lectures were met with sullen silence. He never bothered with his homework and did nothing to help around the house.
Today was no different. She walked in to find the living room still a mess, despite her strict instructions that morning: When you get home from school, tidy up the flat!
With a weary sigh, she put the kettle on and forced herself to start clearing up. As she dusted, something caught her eyethe vase. The cut-glass vase her friends had given her for her birthday, the only item of any value in the flat, was nowhere to be seen. She stood frozen. Had he taken it? Sold it?
Dreadful thoughts raced through her mind. Just the other day, shed seen him with some dodgy-looking lads. When shed asked, Who are they?, all hed muttered was something she couldnt make out, his expression screaming, None of your business! The thought haunted herwas it a bad crowd? Had they talked him into something? He wouldnt do this on his own! Or would he? Was he smoking? Or worse? In a panic, she dashed down the stairs and out to the street. It was already dark in the courtyard; only a few people hurried by.
Slowly, she made her way home again. Its all my fault. Ive made home unbearable for him. I even shout to wake him up in the mornings! And at night, Im always barking at him. Poor lad, what kind of mother am I? She sobbed for a long time, then, unable to just sit still, threw herself into tidying up the flat.
While cleaning behind the fridge, her hand brushed against a rolled-up newspaper. She tugged at it, and heard the jingle of broken glass. Inside were the shattered remains of her beloved vase.
He broke it, she suddenly realised, bursting into tears againonly this time they were tears of relief. So, he had broken the vase after all, and hadnt taken it anywhere. Hed just tried to hide it. The silly boy was probably too scared to come home now! And yet, she caught herselfno, he wasnt silly at all. She imagined what she would have done if shed seen the broken vase straight away, and shuddered at the thought of her own anger. She heaved a heavy sigh, then went to make dinner. She set the table neatly, laid out the napkins, arranged the plates.
It was nearly midnight when her son finally arrived. He stood silently in the doorway. She rushed to him at once, Alex, where have you been? Ive been so worried! Youre frozen. She held his ice-cold hands between hers, kissed him on the cheek, and said, Go on, wash your hands. Ive made your favourite. Bewildered, he did as he was told.
He headed for the kitchen, but she called after him, Ive set the table in the lounge. He walked into the room, which seemed extra clean and welcoming, and sat down tentatively. Eat, love, she said gently. It had been a long time since hed heard such softness from his mum. He sat with his head bowed, not touching his food.
Come on, sweetheart.
He looked up, his voice trembling. I broke the vase.
I know you did, she replied. Its all right. Everything gets broken, sooner or later.
Suddenly, leaning over the table, he began to weep. She went to him, put her arm around his shoulders, and began to cry quietly herself. When he calmed down, she said:
Forgive me, son. Im always shouting, always nagging. Lifes hard for me too, love. You think I dont notice that you dont have the same things as the other boys in your class? Im worn out, swamped with workI even bring it home, you see. Im sorry. Ill never hurt you again.
Dinner passed in silence, and they went to bed without a word. In the morning, she didnt need to wake him; he got up on his own. And for the first time, as she saw him off to school, she didnt say, Behave yourself, but kissed his cheek and said, See you this evening.
That evening, when she came back from work, she found hed washed the floor and cooked dinnerfried potatoes, his own favourite.
From then on, she stopped herself from mentioning school or grades at all. If the rare school visits were tough for her, how much harder must they be for him?
And when, much later, he announced hed continue on to sixth form, she didnt let her doubts show. One day, curiosity got the better of her and she peeked into his school plannerthere were no failing marks at all.
But the day she remembers best is the evening, after dinner, when she was sorting through her paperwork, and he quietly took a seat beside her and offered to help. After an hour of working together, she felt his head rest against her shoulder. She froze, remembering how, when he was little, hed often doze off right there, pressed close to her. In that moment, she realised she had found her son again.
If Ive learned anything, its this: children need understanding far more than lectures. In kindness, lost things are found.
