**Diary Entry – “Don’t Go, Mum”**
After dinner, Mum sat beside seven-year-old Oliver and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He tensed up. The last time she’d done this, it was to say she was leaving on a business trip, and he’d have to stay with her friend, Auntie Claire. The worst part? Auntie Claire’s daughter, Holly, was a right little nightmare—always snitching on him and calling him a runt.
“You’re leaving again, aren’t you? I don’t want to stay with Auntie Claire. Holly’s horrid,” Oliver said, studying Mum’s face.
She smiled, ruffling his messy blond hair. He gathered his nerve.
“Mum, please—let me come with you,” he begged.
“I can’t. I’ll be working non-stop. What would you even do alone?” She stood abruptly, pacing the room.
“You said I’m a big boy now. I don’t want to stay with Auntie Claire and Holly. Can’t I just stay home?”
“Stop whining!” she snapped. “You’re too young to be alone. What if something happened? If you won’t go to Auntie Claire’s, I’ll take you to Gran’s.”
“In Cornwall?” His eyes lit up.
“No. Your other gran—your dad’s mum.”
Oliver blinked. He’d never even met her.
“I don’t want to,” he muttered automatically.
“Wasn’t asking. Pack your schoolbooks and whatever else you want. I’ll get your things.”
His stomach twisted. Last time she’d dropped him at Auntie Claire’s, he hadn’t needed a suitcase. This meant she’d be gone longer.
“I don’t want to go with my things. Can’t I just come with you?” His voice wobbled.
“Enough! Big boys don’t cry.”
“But I’m not a big boy—I’m little!” He sniffled.
The next morning, he dragged his feet dressing, hoping she’d change her mind or lose patience and let him stay. Instead, she snapped that the taxi was waiting and they’d miss breakfast because of him.
They rode in silence across London, then took the lift up to the eleventh floor. When the doors opened, Mum nudged him toward a steel door.
The woman who answered didn’t look like any gran he knew. She wore a long red dressing gown with gold embroidery, her hair piled high. Her lips curled in disgust as if he were a rat. Mum screamed at rats—this woman didn’t, but her glare was just as cold.
Usually, adults cooed, “Who’s this handsome lad?” She just stared.
“Hello, Margaret. Thank you for having Oliver. Here’s his clothes, his routine, his school address…”
“When d’you plan to come back from your little… *business trip*?” Her voice was rough, like a man’s.
*Maybe she* is *a man in disguise*, Oliver thought.
“A week, maybe sooner,” Mum said.
His heart plummeted. He looked up at her, eyes full of hurt.
“Don’t go. Mum, take me with you,” he pleaded, clutching her coat.
Margaret’s hands clamped onto his shoulders, sharp as claws. Startled, he let go—and Mum shut the door behind her. He screamed, yanking the handle, but Margaret just sighed.
“Quit that racket.” She released him. “Get undressed. Hope your mum packed your slippers—I’m not wasting my pension on you.” She floated off, leaving him alone.
Too stubborn to undress, he crouched by the door until his legs cramped. Finally, he unzipped his bag—there were his slippers, a reminder of home. He burst into tears.
When he shuffled into the kitchen later, Margaret was smoking at the table. He’d never seen a gran smoke before.
“Name’s Margaret. Can you manage that? Call me Margo.” She stubbed out her cigarette like killing a bug, then coughed—a wet, rattling sound.
How long did he stay with her? Felt like forever. She barely spoke to him, just smoked and watched telly.
One day, he came home from school to find his suitcase by the door.
“Is Mum back?” he asked hopefully.
“No.”
The next morning, Margo drove him to a grim brick building. He didn’t catch the sign before she shoved him inside. He sat sweating in the hallway while she spoke to the headmaster.
Then she walked out—without even looking back.
The headmaster led him down a corridor full of shouting kids. Upstairs, she showed him a room with rows of beds and left. Before he could blink, four boys circled him.
“What’s your name, newbie?” the tallest sneered.
“Your mum ditch you, or did she kick it?” another asked.
“She’s on a trip,” Oliver squeaked.
“Yeah, sure. She found herself a bloke and dumped you here.” They laughed, rifling through his things, stealing his clothes and books.
He fought back, head-butting one, but the others piled on. Only the caretaker, Mrs. Sims, saved him, shooing them off with her mop.
That night, they held him under a blanket and beat him. Humiliated, he wet himself. By morning, they’d paraded his soiled sheets around, laughing.
The children’s home was hell. Even Margo’s flat seemed like heaven now. He fought constantly, got punished, hid in corners crying for Mum.
When he got older, he ran away—twice. Both times, the police dragged him back. Only Mrs. Sims showed him kindness, letting him hide in her supply closet.
“Hold on, love. Don’t turn bitter. Good people are out there,” she’d say.
When he aged out, she gave him her address.
“Come by if you need help. Stay clear of bad sorts. What’s your plan?”
“Work and study,” he said firmly.
“Smart lad. Can’t get far without an education.”
After gorging on freedom—ice cream, pizza, wandering London—he visited Mrs. Sims. She fed him soup, clucking over his struggles.
Later, he got a dingy flat, reeking of smoke and booze. Mrs. Sims gave him curtains, some dishes. He started working at a factory, enrolled in night classes for engineering.
There, he met Emily—sweet, pretty. Her parents banned her from seeing him when they learned he grew up in care.
But she stayed. After fights at home, she’d sob, “They threaten to move me away if I don’t leave you.”
“Then move in with me. I earn enough.”
After one brutal row, she did. Her parents called the police, but his work references saved him. They were left alone.
For the first time, he had a family.
Then her parents wanted to meet him. He dressed carefully.
“You look sharp,” Emily said approvingly.
“That’s ‘cause I am.”
When the doorbell rang, she answered—then returned wide-eyed.
“It’s for you. Some woman… says she’s your mum.”
The word *mum* usually conjured warmth, safety. All he saw was betrayal.
He stepped into the hall. A worn-out woman stood there—could’ve been fifty, could’ve been seventy. Nothing in him stirred.
“Don’t you know me, Oliver? I’m your mum,” she said, voice trembling.
“I don’t know you,” he said flatly.
She babbled apologies, saying she’d wanted to see him.
“Seen enough?” He turned to leave, but Emily gripped his arm.
“Oliver, she’s your *mum*.”
“I don’t have one. She left me. Get out.”
She crumbled. “Son, I—I was in trouble. Then I got sick, nearly died…”
“Looks like you pulled through,” he sneered. “Why come now? I needed you *then*. When I was beaten, starving—where were you?”
She covered her face. Emily scolded him, but he spat back:
“You know what the home was like? They held me down, stole everything. I froze on bathroom floors at night. Where. Were. You?”
She sank to her knees, reaching for him. He recoiled.
“I was *seven*. I needed love. I can’t give you what you never gave me. Get out.”
Emily stormed off after their fight.
“You’re heartless. I thought I loved someone else.”
Alone, he paced. That woman—was she even his mother? He’d been cruel. Worse, he hadn’t asked *why*.
He found her on a park bench, crying.
“You came back because you’re old and alone? You ruined my life. I can’t forgive you.”
She left, stumbling. He watched her go—then called out.
She turned, hopeful.
He felt nothing. Still, he took her address.
Emily visited the woman the next day.
“She got caught smuggling drugs. Did time, got sickShe died before he could bring himself to say goodbye, and all that remained was the quiet grief of what might have been.
