Forgive me, son.
This is the story of a dysfunctional family, as we rather judgmentally put it here. A mother raising her son alone, her marriage having collapsed before the little one was even out of nappies. The years trundled on, and now her son was fourteen, she was thirty-four, hunched over her calculator as a bookkeeper at a modest local office.
Life, though, had spectacularly fallen to bits in the last year. Until year six, her son, Ben, had managed quite well at school, but then the marks started sliding first Cs, then lower. All she wanted, desperately, was for Ben to at least finish his GCSEs, maybe get a qualification, anything to keep him afloat!
The dreaded school call-ins never let up: the form tutor seemed to have made it her personal mission to shred Mum’s self-confidence in front of a gaggle of teachers, each eager to contribute another tale of Ben’s misdemeanours and habit of forgetting to hand in homework. Shed leave those meetings defeated, exasperated, convinced there was nothing left in her power to fix. Her lectures at home were met with stony silence and the odd scowl. Chores? Homework? Both performed with all the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to clean a medieval toilet.
And today, true to form, she came home and found his room a tip. This despite having given that mornings command in full mum is not to be trifled with mode: When you get in from school, tidy the house!
She set the kettle boiling with all the energy of a weary snail, and half-heartedly started clearing up. Dusting, she noticed something odd: her one precious thing a crystal vase, gifted by her old uni friends ages ago (no chance shed have ever bought it herself!) was gone. She froze. Nicked? Sold? Darker thoughts began crashing in. Shed seen Ben hanging about with some dodgy-looking lads just the other day. When pressed, hed mumbled something about just blokes from round the corner, his face clearly spelling out none of your business.
“A bad crowd,” panic jabbed at her. Oh, God, what if theyd made him do something awful? Surely he wouldnt! Not her Ben! But what if hed started smoking or worse? Distraught, she half stumbled down the stairs and out onto the cold street. It was already getting dark, only a couple of people hurried by, clutching their bags, eager to get home.
She trudged back indoors, despairing. Its my fault. All my fault. Ive turned home into a misery for him. Most mornings she bellowed him awake; most evenings ended with her yelling herself hoarse. What kind of mum am I, poor Ben? she murmured, tears now falling freely. When there were simply no tears left, she threw herself into cleaning, scrubbing every surface until her mind finally stopped racing.
Behind the fridge, she discovered an old newspaper. As she tugged it out, there was the unmistakable jingle of broken glass. Unwrapping the parcel, she found the crystal vase, smashed, its sharp shards hidden away.
Smashed Hed just smashed it. The ridiculous wave of relief nearly knocked her over Ben had broken the vase and clumsily hidden it, rather than stealing or selling it. Now, of course, the poor sod was wandering the streets, terrified to come home! But then a new thought struck her: Ben wasnt stupid. She imagined her own wrath if she had found the broken vase immediately, and shuddered. Wearily, she started on dinner and set the table, smoothing out the napkins and fussing with plates to make things welcoming.
It was close to midnight when Ben finally tiptoed in, standing sheepishly in the doorway. She rushed over, Ben! Where have you been? I’ve been sat here worrying myself sick! Have you frozen out there? She took his cold hands, warmed them with hers, kissed his cheek and insisted, Go, wash your hands your favourites waiting.
Baffled by this new turn, he went and washed up, then shuffled to the kitchen, only for her to chirp, Ive laid the table in the lounge. Still not quite believing his luck, Ben wandered in, noted the sparkling clean flat, and gingerly sat down, as if expecting it to blow up. Eat up, love! came his mums gentle voice, a tone he had almost forgotten she could use. He sat, head bowed, poking at the food.
Whats up, Ben?
He looked up and stammered, I broke the vase.
I know, love, she replied. Its alright. Everything breaks eventually, doesnt it?
Then, suddenly, he began to sob over his plate. She came over, hugged him hard, and the two of them, for the first time in ages, cried together quietly. Once Ben got his breath back, she whispered,
Forgive me, Ben. I shout so much. I know youre tired. I know you hate those old jumpers you have to wear, and Im sorry you have to go without. Works a slog you see how I even bring it home with me. Im sorry, really sorry. I promise Ill never make you feel bad again.
Dinner finished silently. They crept off to bed to the blessed peace of the night. That morning, Ben was up before her, and when she sent him off to school, it was with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, no warnings, just a gentle See you tonight!
When she came home that evening, she found the floors gleaming and Ben in the kitchen, proudly frying up some chips.
From then on, she forbade herself from even mentioning school or grades. If just walking through school doors was agony for her, what must it have been for him?
So when he announced, almost offhand, that hed be staying on for his A-levels, she kept her doubts silent. A while later, she couldnt resist peeking in his school plannerno failing grades.
But what really stuck in her heart was this: one evening, after dinner, as she was sorting out her piles of bills, Ben took a seat beside her and said, Let me help with the adding up. They worked together for an hour, and then she realised that Bens head was resting on her shoulder.
She went very still. When hed been little, hed often sat by her, fallen asleep right there on her arm. She realised then, quietly, shed got her Ben back.
