**Diary Entry**
Ive been released on parole after serving time in place of my sononly for him to sell the house and shut me out completely.
I paused at the little garden gate, leaning against the wicker fence, breathless from running like mad from the bus stop. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs. Even in the crisp autumn air, sweat beaded on my forehead. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and pushed open the gate.
At a glance, I noticed the shed had been patched up. My son hadnt written in years, but he hadnt liedthe house was still standing, just as hed promised. I raced up the porch steps, ready to embrace my dear little Harry.
But the door swung open to reveal a stranger, grim-faced, a tea towel slung over his shoulder.
“Looking for someone?” he asked, voice rough as he studied me.
I froze.
“Wheres Harry?”
The man scratched his chin, eyeing me with blunt indifference. I shrank under his gaze, painfully aware of my shabby quilted jacket, scuffed boots, and stained bagthe clothes of someone whod just walked out of prison. Summer when they took me, late autumn now.
“Harrys my son. Where is he? Is he alright?”
The man shrugged.
“Dunno. Shouldnt you know?” He moved to shut the door, then hesitated. “Harry Wilson?”
I nodded eagerly. His expression softened.
“Bought this place off him four years back. Come in if you like”
“No, no!” I waved my hands, nearly stumbling off the steps. “Can you tell me where to find him?”
He shook his head. I turned back to the gate. I could go to my old friend Dottie, but she had a sharp tongueshed drown me in scorn. And a mothers heart knows when somethings gone wrong.
Trudging toward the bus stop, my thoughts darkened. What had happened? Harry had been so trusting Four years ago, hed trusted a “mate” and wound up tangled in fraud. If I hadnt taken the blame, hed have faced a longer sentence. They gave me, an old woman, just five years. Released early for good behaviour, even paid my bus fare home.
Sitting on a cold bench, I whispered,
“Where are you, my boy?”
Tears welled up. My heart had lurched three years back when his letters stopped. Now my worst fears seemed truehed even sold the house. I dabbed my cheeks with a handkerchief.
Suddenly, a black car pulled up. The grim-faced man, the houses new owner, handed me a slip of paper.
“Found this address in the papers. Want a lift to town?”
I clutched it like a lifeline.
“Thank you, love, but Ill manage.” Heartened, I boarded the rickety approaching bus.
Half an hour of jolts and dread later, I stood before a crumbling block of flats. I buzzed the intercom, holding my breath. Would they open the door only to deliver awful news? Tears streamed down unchecked.
When the door flew open, my joy was boundlessthere he was, rumpled, a bit drunk, but alive! My Harry! I sobbed, reaching for him, but he didnt share my happiness. He stepped back, door half-shut.
“Howd you find me?”
Stunned by his cold welcome, I faltered. He turned me toward the stairs.
“Sorry, Mum. Cant let you in. My missus hates ex-cons. Sort yourself outIm skint.”
I tried to mention the house sale, but the door slammedlike a gunshot to the heart. No more tears. Head down, I descended. Dottie had been rightId raised a rotter. Now Id face her scolding, homeless.
Back in the village, fate mocked meDottie had died six months prior; her house now held near-stranger grandchildren. In the drizzling rain, I hunched at the bus stop, pondering the future.
Headlights startled methe new owner, calling out:
“Get in, youre soaked!”
I refused, weepingwhere would I go? This strangers kindness unnerved me. He practically bundled me into the car.
We talked. I shared my bitter tale, omitting the visit to Harry out of shame. The driver, Andrew, offered me shelter, at least for a while. So Vera Wilson returned to her old home, now his. And stayed.
Andrew worked dawn to duskhis timber yard was thriving. I kept house: cooking, laundry, chores. Easy with modern appliances. Andrew, young and divorced, wasnt looking to remarry.
My presence was what he neededan orphan raised in care, he finally knew a mothers warmth. Each time I mentioned leaving, hed say:
“Whered you go? This is your home!”
Slowly, my heart thawed. A blood son cant be replaced, but Andrews goodness was rarealmost like family. As winter neared, I took lunch to the yardtoo busy sometimes to come home.
That day, I brought hot soup and meat pies. Shooing a stranger from the office, I laid a clean cloth. Andrew laughed:
“Mrs. Wilson, youre a sergeant major! What if hes offended?”
I frowned.
“Thinking of hiring him as foreman? Take one lookhes a wrong un. Prison taught me to read people.”
He shook his head.
“Come on, Mum! His CVs solid. Cant judge by first impressions.”
I was right. A month later, the yard lost stockthe bloke had been pilfering timber, then vanished with a lorryload. Andrew, grim, admitted his mistake.
Hiring anew, he decided: “Grans got a nose for troubleshell help.” From then on, I sat in interviewsAndrew asked questions, I watched, scribbled verdicts. Whole sheets: “quarrelsome drunk,” “proven thief,” “lazy layabout”short and sharp.
I spotted good workers too, even scruffy ones. But one applicant made me hesitatehands shaking as I stared at the form.
Andrew glanced at the visitorthe man whod bought the house! Harry gaped, seeing me beside the boss, fidgeting with his cap. His wife had sent himthe yard paid well. He never expected to find me here; thought Id vanished.
In silence, Andrew took my verdict. I wrote two words, then fled. Harry smirkedof course theyd hire him; his mum would plead his case.
Andrew read aloud:
“Right bastard.” He shooed Harry like a fly. “Out! I trust Mums judgement.”
