**Mum, Don’t Go**
After supper, Mum sat beside seven-year-old Jamie and hugged his shoulders. He stiffened. The last time this had happened, she’d told him she was going away for a few days on business, leaving him with Aunt Grace. The worst part? Aunt Grace had a daughter, Lydia—an insufferable little snob who tattled on him constantly and called him a runt.
“Are you leaving again? I don’t want to stay with Aunt Grace. Lydia’s horrible,” Jamie blurted, eyeing his mother.
Mum smiled and ruffled his messy hair affectionately. Feeling braver, Jamie pressed on.
“Mum, please, take me with you,” he pleaded.
“I can’t. I’ll be working nonstop. What would you even do all day?” She stood and paced nervously around the room.
“You said I’m a big boy now. I don’t want to stay with Aunt Grace and Lydia. Can I just stay home alone?”
“Stop whinging!” she snapped. “You’re too young to stay by yourself. What if something happens? If you won’t go to Aunt Grace’s, I’ll take you to Grandma’s instead.”
“To Bristol?” Jamie perked up, his eyes shining hopefully.
“No. Your father’s mother.”
Jamie blinked in surprise. He had another grandma? He’d never even met her.
“No thank you,” he said cautiously.
“I wasn’t asking. Pack your school things and whatever else you want to bring. I’ll get your clothes ready.”
Jamie’s stomach twisted. The last time Mum dropped him off somewhere, he hadn’t needed a suitcase. That meant she was leaving for a long time.
“I don’t want to go anywhere with my things. Can’t I just come with you?” he wheedled.
“Enough! Big boys don’t cry.”
“I’m not a big boy, I’m a little boy,” Jamie sniffled.
The next morning, he dawdled getting dressed, praying Mum would change her mind or lose patience and let him stay home. Instead, she scolded him—they were already late, the taxi was waiting, and now they’d miss breakfast.
They rode through London, then took a lift up eleven floors. When the doors opened, Mum nudged him toward a heavy metal door.
A woman who looked nothing like any grandma he’d ever seen answered. She wore a long red dressing gown embroidered with golden pheasants, and her towering hairdo made her seem even taller. She stared at Jamie with an expression like she’d stepped in something unpleasant—no cooing about what a lovely boy he was, just icy silence.
“Hello, Margaret,” Mum said stiffly. “Thank you for having Jamie. Here’s his things—I wrote down his routine, his favourite meals, his school address…”
“When will you be back from your… *business trip*?” Margaret’s voice was rough, almost like a man’s.
*Maybe she* is *a man in disguise,* Jamie thought wildly.
“A week, maybe less,” Mum said.
Jamie’s heart plummeted. He looked up at her, eyes full of betrayal.
“Don’t go. Mummy, take me with you,” he begged, clutching her coat.
Margaret’s hands dug into his shoulders like claws. Startled, Jamie let go—and Mum shut the door behind her. He screamed, banged on the door, yanked the handle—
“Quit that racket!” Margaret barked, releasing him. “Enough of the theatrics. Take off your coat. I hope your mum remembered your slippers—I won’t waste my pension on you.” With that, she glided away, leaving Jamie alone.
He stubbornly kept his coat on, sinking into a crouch by the door, but his legs soon went numb. Finally, he gave in, unzipped his bag, and found his slippers. The sight of them—so ordinary, so *home*—made him burst into tears.
By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, Margaret was smoking at the table. Jamie gaped—he’d never seen a grandma smoke before.
“My name is Margaret. Think you can manage that?” She stubbed out her cigarette like she was squashing a bug, then coughed violently. Something rattled in her chest.
How long did he stay with Margaret? It felt like forever. They barely spoke. A few times, she drove him to school before he started taking the bus alone. Mostly, she smoked and watched telly.
Then, one day, Jamie came home to find his suitcase packed in the hall.
“Is Mum back?” he asked eagerly.
“No.”
The next morning, Margaret took him to a big, boxy building that looked like an oversize nursery. He didn’t catch the sign before she marched him inside to the headmaster’s office. After a hushed conversation, she left without a backward glance. The headmaster led him down a long corridor, voices echoing behind every door, then upstairs to a room with rows of beds.
He barely had time to look around before four boys swaggered in. Two were much older.
“New kid, what’s your name?” the biggest one asked.
“Mum lose custody, or did she get run over?” another sneered.
“She’s on a business trip,” Jamie squeaked.
“Yeah, right. More like she’s shacked up with some bloke and dumped you here.” They laughed, emptying his bag onto the floor, stealing his clothes and books.
Jamie fought back, ramming one into the wall, but the others ganged up on him. It would have been worse if carer Auntie Jean hadn’t burst in, shooing them off with a mop.
That night, they held him down under a blanket and beat him. Humiliated, Jamie wet himself. The next morning, the boys waved his sheets like a trophy.
Life in the care home was hell. Even Margaret’s flat seemed like paradise now. He fought constantly, got punished constantly, hid in corners sobbing for Mum.
When he got older, he ran away—twice—but the police always dragged him back. Only Auntie Jean was kind, letting him hide in her broom cupboard.
“Hang in there, love,” she’d say. “Don’t let the bad apples turn you rotten. There’s good folk out there.”
When he aged out, she pressed a slip of paper into his hand. “Come see me if you need help. Stay clear of trouble. What’s your plan?”
“Work and study,” Jamie said firmly.
“Good lad. Can’t get far without an education.”
After gorging on freedom—and too much pizza and ice cream—he turned up at Auntie Jean’s. She fed him soup, clucking over his rough life. Later, he got a grim little council flat, reeking of smoke and stale beer. Auntie Jean donated old curtains and dishes, and his real life began.
He found work at a factory and enrolled in night classes. At uni, he met Emily, sweet and bright. Her parents forbade her from seeing him after learning he was care home–raised.
But Emily didn’t give up. She’d cry about their fights, how her parents threatened to move her away.
“Just leave. Come live with me,” Jamie urged.
After one last row, she did. Her parents called the police, but Jamie’s glowing work reference saved them.
Now he had a family—something he’d never known. Eventually, Emily’s parents even invited him over. He dressed carefully.
“You look like a proper groom,” Emily teased.
“I *am* a groom.”
When the doorbell rang later, Emily returned, puzzled. “Someone for you.”
“Who?”
“Go see. A woman says she’s your mum.”
The word *Mum* conjured warmth, safety—but Jamie only remembered tears. He stepped into the hall. A woman stood there, worn beyond her years. Nothing inside him stirred.
“Don’t you know me, Jamie? I’m your mum,” she said, voice shaking.
“I don’t know you,” he said flatly.
She babbled apologies—how she’d messed up, how proud she was of him. Jamie turned away, but Emily stopped him.
“Jamie, she’s your *mother*.”
“I don’t have one. She left me. Get out.”
The woman wept. “I had problems… then I got sick. They operated—I almost died—”
“Looks like it worked,” Jamie said coldly. “Why come now? I needed you when I was getting beaten in that place!”
She covered her face, shoulders shaking. Just like he’d done.
Emily scolded him later—how could he be so heartless? But Jamie couldn’t shake the anger.
Days passed. One evening, restless, he wandered outside… and spotted her brown coat on the playground bench. Head bowed, crying.
“Why’d you come?” he demanded, sitting far from her. “Thought I’d be thrilled? You’re old now, no blokes left—so you remembered me?”
She stoodShe wiped her eyes, whispered, “I’m sorry,” and walked away, leaving Jamie staring after her, the cold wind biting at his cheeks as the weight of years of hurt and unanswered questions settled between them like a silent ghost.
