“Mum, Don’t Go”
After supper, Mum sat beside seven-year-old Oliver and draped an arm around his shoulders. He stiffened. The last time she’d done this, she’d left on a business trip, and he’d stayed with her friend Aunt Claire. That wouldn’t have been so bad—except Aunt Claire had a daughter, Poppy, who was insufferably smug and spiteful. She’d tattled on him constantly, calling him “shrimp” and worse.
“Are you going away again? I don’t want to stay with Aunt Claire. Poppy’s horrible,” Oliver blurted, staring up at her.
Mum gave a weak smile and ruffled his tousled hair. Emboldened, he pressed on.
“Mum, please, take me with you.”
“I can’t. I’ll be working all hours. What would you do alone?” She stood abruptly and paced the room, her movements brittle with nerves.
“You said I was a big boy now. I don’t want to stay with Aunt Claire and Poppy. Can’t I stay here by myself?”
“Stop whinging!” she snapped. “You’re far too young to be on your own. What if something happened?” Her voice softened slightly. “If you won’t go to Aunt Claire’s, I’ll take you to Gran’s.”
“To Bristol?” Oliver’s eyes brightened.
“No. Your other gran—your dad’s mother.”
Oliver blinked. He hadn’t even known he had another grandmother. He’d never met her.
“I don’t want to,” he muttered, just in case.
“It’s not up to you. Pack your schoolbooks and whatever else you want to take. I’ll get your clothes ready.”
A cold dread pooled in Oliver’s chest. The last time Mum had taken him to Aunt Claire’s, he hadn’t needed a suitcase. If she was packing now, she must be leaving for ages.
“I don’t want to go anywhere with a suitcase. Can’t I just go with you?”
“Enough!” Her voice was sharp. “Big boys don’t cry.”
“But I’m not a big boy! I’m just a kid!” His voice cracked.
The next morning, he dawdled, dressing as slowly as he could, praying she’d change her mind or lose patience and let him stay. Instead, she shouted that the taxi was waiting, and they hadn’t even had breakfast.
They drove across London in silence. The lift ride to the eleventh floor seemed endless. When the doors slid open, Mum nudged him toward a heavy steel door.
The woman who answered bore no resemblance to any gran he’d imagined. She wore a long crimson dressing gown adorned with gilded birds, her hair piled in an elaborate updo. Her lips curled as if she’d spotted a cockroach—the same way Mum shrieked at bugs. But this woman didn’t scream. Her stare was cold, promising nothing good.
Usually, adults cooed over him—What a lovely boy! Who’s this tall young man? She said nothing, just flicked her gaze between him and Mum.
“Hello, Margot,” Mum said stiffly. “Thank you for having Oliver. Here’s his things. I’ve written his schedule, what he likes to eat, his school address…”
“When will you be back from your…” Margot’s voice dripped with disdain, “…business trip?” Her tone was rough, almost masculine. Oliver wondered if she was a man in disguise.
“A week. Maybe sooner.”
Oliver’s heart plummeted. He looked up at Mum, eyes swimming with hurt.
“Don’t go. Mummy, take me with you,” he begged, clutching her coat.
Margot’s hands clamped on his shoulders, sharp nails digging in. Startled, he let go—and Mum slammed the door behind her. Oliver screamed, yanked at the handle, but Margot hauled him back.
“Shut it! You’ll deafen me.” She released him with a shove. “Stop the hysterics. Get undressed. And I hope your mother packed your slippers. I’m not spending my pension on you.”
She swept away, leaving him trembling in the hall.
He stayed stubbornly bundled in his coat until his legs cramped. Finally, he unzipped his bag—and there were his slippers. The sight of them, so familiar, tore the last of his composure away.
When he stumbled into the kitchen, Margot was at the table, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Oliver gaped. He’d never seen a gran smoke.
“My name is Margot Fitzroy. Can you manage that?” She stubbed out the cigarette like she was crushing a spider, then coughed, a wet, rattling noise in her chest.
Days blurred into weeks. Margot barely spoke to him. She drove him to school twice before making him take the bus. Otherwise, she chain-smoked, lost in her telly programmes.
Then one evening, he came home to find his things packed in the hall.
“Is Mum back?” he asked, heart leaping.
Margot didn’t answer.
The next morning, she drove him to a large, institutional-looking building—like a nursery, but grim. Before he could read the sign, she marched him inside.
Oliver sat sweating in a corridor while Margot spoke to the headmistress behind closed doors. When she emerged, she left without a glance back. The headmistress took his hand, leading him down a long hallway, past rooms buzzing with children’s voices.
They climbed to the second floor. A dormitory stretched before him—rows of narrow beds. The headmistress pointed to one. “That’s yours.”
She left.
Four boys swaggered in moments later. Two were much older. Their eyes locked onto him like predators.
“New kid. What’s your name?”
“Did your mum lose custody, or did a car hit her?” another sneered.
“She’s on a trip,” Oliver whispered.
They burst out laughing. “Sure she is. She found a new bloke and dumped you here.”
“That’s not true! She’ll come back—”
They tore into his bag, spilling his clothes, stealing what they wanted. He fought, but they shoved him down. Rage made him reckless—he headbutted one, sending him crashing into a wall. The others piled onto him.
It might’ve been worse if the caretaker, Miss Hilda, hadn’t charged in, swinging a mop to scatter them.
That night, they dragged him from bed, smothered him under a blanket, and beat him. Humiliated and terrified, he wet himself. At dawn, the boys paraded his soiled sheets through the dorm, howling with laughter.
Life in the children’s home became unbearable. Margot’s flat seemed like paradise now. He fought constantly, was punished constantly. He hid in corners, sobbing for his mum.
As he grew older, he tried running away—twice. The police dragged him back. Miss Hilda was the only kindness there. She’d let him hide in her storeroom among the mops and buckets.
“Hold on, love. It’ll pass. Don’t let the world turn you cruel. There’s good people out there.”
When he aged out, Miss Hilda pressed a scrap of paper into his hand—her address and number.
“Come see me. I’ll help if I can. Stay clear of trouble.”
He nodded. “I’ll work. Study.”
“That’s the way. No future without an education.”
Freedom was short-lived. After gorging on ice cream and pizza, he turned up on Miss Hilda’s doorstep. She fed him soup, sighing over the poor boy’s fate.
Eventually, the council gave him a flat—dingy, stinking of stale beer and cigarettes. He patched it up best he could. Miss Hilda donated old curtains, a few dishes. He started work at a factory, enrolled in college for engineering.
There, he met Emily. Sweet, pretty Emily. Her parents forbade her from seeing him when they learned he’d grown up in care.
But Emily refused to leave him. She cried often, torn between him and her parents’ threats to move her away.
“Just move in with me,” he pleaded. “I earn enough.”
After one last row, she did. Her parents called the police, but his clean record spared them.
Now he had a family—something he’d never known. Eventually, her parents relented, asked to meet him. He dressed carefully, checking his reflection.
“You look like a groom,” Emily teased.
He grinned. “I am, aren’t I?”
When the doorbell rang, Emily went to answer it. She returned, uneasy.
“It’s for you.”
“Who?”
“Just go. A woman says she’s… your mum.”
That word—mum—should conjure warmth, safety. But all Oliver remembered was abandonment. He stepped into the hall.
A woman stood there, age hard to place. Fifty? Older? His heart stayed cold.
“You don’t recognise me, Ollie? I’m your mum.”
His voice was flat. “I don’t know you.”He turned away, closing the door softly, knowing some wounds never truly heal.
