Forgive me, my boy.
This is the story of a family some would call troubled, as its often branded here. A mother raising her only son on her own, no husband aroundshed divorced before the boy had even turned one. Now, at thirty-four, she worked as an accounts assistant in a modest council office; her son was fourteen.
Over the past year, life had become unbearable. He used to do well in primary, but everything changed in secondary: Cs crept in, then worse. All she wanted now was for Jamie to finish his GCSEs, get some kind of trade, anything for a future.
There were the constant calls into school. The head of year never minced her words, scolding the mother in front of a parade of teachers, each eager to add their own grievances about Jamies behaviour and poor marks. Drained and frustrated, she would trudge home, overwhelmed by a helpless sense of failing to make anything better. Her lectures and scoldings were met with silence and a scowl; he never did his homework or offered a hand around the house.
That afternoon was no different. She came in to find his room a complete mess again. Only this morning shed left for work with a stern command: When you get back from school, tidy the flat!
Sighing, she flicked the kettle on and started clearing up, every movement heavy with exhaustion. As she dusted, she noticed something oddthe cut-glass vase, the one her old friends had given her for her birthday, was missing. The only thing of real value she owned, shed never have bought it herself. For a moment, she froze. Had Jamie taken it? Sold it?
Each thought that flashed through her mind felt darker than the last. Only the other day, shed seen him hanging about with some dodgy lads. When shed asked who they were, Jamie had just muttered something, his face saying clear as day: Keep out of it. Panic sunk inwhat if these new friends had pressured him? He wasnt like that, he couldnt be! But was he smoking, too? Or worse?
Heart racing, she ran down the stairs, glanced wildly around the estate beneath the orange glow of the streetlightsstragglers making their way home, the last buses groaning past. But Jamie wasnt anywhere.
She crept back up, guilt pressing in from all sides. Its my fault. All my fault. It hasnt been a real home for him in ages. I even wake him up shouting, then spend the whole evening nagging. Oh, Jamie, what sort of mother did you end up with? She wept for what felt like hours, then, incapable of sitting still, threw herself into a frenzy of cleaning.
Scrubbing behind the fridge, she found an old newspaper. Pulling it free, she heard the clinking of glassinside, wrapped in the pages, were the shattered pieces of her vase.
He broke it He broke it, she realisedand, unexpectedly, fresh tears came. This time, though, they were tears of relief. Hed broken the vase, but hadnt stolen or sold it, only hidden it away. And now, that silly boy, he was too afraid to come home. Abruptly, she caught herselfhe wasnt silly at all. In her mind, she saw herself discovering the broken vase, saw her own furious rage. She let out a long, tired sigh and set about making supper. She laid the table, put out napkins, arranged everything neatly.
Jamie finally came home just before midnight, hovering in the doorway, silent. She rushed over.
Jamie! Where have you been, love? Ive been sitting here so worriedhave you been out in the cold? She took his icy hands, warming them in hers, kissed his cheek. Go on, wash up. I made your favourite for tea. Dazed, he wandered off to the bathroom.
When he came to the kitchen, she told him, Ive set things up in the lounge. The room glowed with unusual warmth and order, every surface gleaming. Jamie sat gingerly. Eat up, love, his mother said softly. It had been so long since shed used such gentle words with him. He sat, head lowered, not touching his food.
Come on, Jamie
At last, he raised his head, voice trembling: I broke the vase.
I know, darling, she said quietly. Doesnt matter. Everything breaks, in the end.
Suddenly, Jamie bowed over his plate and began to cry. She wrapped her arms around his narrow shoulders and silently wept with him. When he was calm, she whispered:
Forgive me, Jamie. Im so sorry. I yell and moan, I know. This is hard for me, love. I know you can see your coat isnt as smart as the other boys. Im just tired, swamped at workI even have to bring it home. Forgive me. Ill never make you feel small again.
They finished supper in peace, and turned in quietly. In the morning, for the first time in years, she didnt have to drag him out of bed. Jamie was up on his own, washed and ready. And when he left for school, she didnt scold, just pressed a kiss to his cheek and said, See you this evening.
That night, coming home, she found the floor swept and dinner waitingJamie had fried potatoes and set the table.
From then on, she forbade herself from ever bringing up school or grades at home. If just talking to his teachers is so painful for me, what must it be like for him? she reckoned.
When Jamie announced, unexpectedly, that hed go on to sixth form after his GCSEs, she didnt let her doubts show. One evening, she sneaked a look at his plannerno failing marks anywhere.
But the moment shed never forget was the evening, after dinner, when she started sorting the bills at the table. Jamie pulled a chair up beside her, quietly saying hed help with the numbers. After an hours work, she realised hed rested his head on her shoulder.
She stopped, frozen. When he was small, he would do just the samecuddle close, put his head in her lap, sometimes drift asleep right there. Now, she knewshe had her boy back.
