“You’re going today.”
Cade was still at the table in his joggers, halfway through a bowl of cereal.
I nearly dropped my coffee.
“Clive. What are you talking about?”
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“He’s eighteen. Time he found out how it works.”
“He’s your son.”Get Writing Tools
He did not really look at me. “And grown men don’t spend their lives behind their mothers.”
Cade’s eyes were red, as though he had not been to bed.
And when he finally said something, his voice was frighteningly level.
“I’m never going to forgive either of you.”
“Cade — please. Give me a bit of time. I’ll talk to your dad.”
I reached for him and he moved out of the way.
That hurt more than anything my husband said that morning.
And then he picked that bag up and went out of the front door and did not look back.Study Biology
For the next twelve months I tried everything.
I rang every week. I texted most nights. Birthdays, Christmas, and about forty ordinary mornings when I woke up wondering whether that boy had eaten anything.
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He never answered. Not once.
And Clive was barely interested. “If he can’t manage on his own,” he said one evening, “then I was right about him.”
I stopped arguing. I never stopped waiting.
And then last Thursday, while my husband was at work, somebody knocked.
And I opened the door and forgot how to breathe.Get Marriage Tips
Cade was on the step. Thinner. Grey. Rain in his hair and across the shoulders of his coat.
In one arm he had a baby — tiny, wrapped up tight in a hospital blanket.
In the other hand, an old suitcase with a broken handle and silver tape across one corner.
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“Cade?”
It came out as nothing.
And I wanted to put my arms round him and I wanted to shout at him and I wanted to apologise for a whole year in one breath.
And what I said was: “Where have you been?”
He did not answer.Track Pregnancy
“Whose baby is that?”
His hands were shaking so hard the blanket was moving.
“Mum. Just let me in.”
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I stepped back and he came in, and the second the door shut he turned round.
