**”Mum, Please Don’t Go”**
After dinner, Mum sat beside seven-year-old Charlie and hugged his shoulders. He tensed—the last time she’d done this, she’d left for a work trip and he’d had to stay with her friend, Auntie Claire. The problem was Claire’s daughter, Lucy, an unbearably smug and spiteful girl who loved tattling on him and calling him a runt.
“Are you going away again? I don’t want to stay with Auntie Claire. Lucy’s awful,” Charlie said, looking up at his mother.
Mum smiled and ruffled his messy hair. Feeling braver, he pleaded, “Mum, please take me with you.”
“I can’t. I’ll be working all day. What would you even do alone?” She stood and paced the room, her nerves showing.
“You said I’m a big boy now. I don’t want to stay with Auntie Claire and Lucy. Can’t I just stay here?”
“Enough whinging!” she snapped. “You’re too young to be on your own. What if something happened? If you won’t stay with Claire, I’ll take you to Grandma’s.”
“In Brighton?” Charlie’s eyes lit up hopefully.
“No. Your other grandma—your dad’s mum.”
Charlie was stunned. He had another grandma? He’d never met her.
“I don’t want to,” he muttered, just in case.
“It’s not up to you. Pack your school things and whatever else you want. I’ll get your clothes ready.”
Charlie’s stomach twisted. Last time she’d dropped him at Auntie Claire’s, he hadn’t needed a bag. This time, she must be leaving for ages.
“I don’t want to take my things. Please let me come with you,” he begged, his voice wobbling.
“Stop it! Big boys don’t cry.”
“But I’m not a big boy—I’m just a kid!” he hiccuped.
The next morning, he dressed slowly, hoping Mum would change her mind. Instead, she scolded him for making them late, shoving him into a taxi without breakfast.
They rode in silence across London, took the lift to the eleventh floor, and Mum nudged him toward a steel door.
The woman who answered looked nothing like a grandma. She wore a long red robe with golden embroidery, and her hair was styled high, like a queen in a film. She looked at Charlie with a wrinkled nose, as if he were something unpleasant. Unlike Mum, who shrieked at mice, this woman didn’t scream—but her expression promised nothing good.
Usually, grown-ups cooed, “Who’s this handsome boy?” Not this woman. She just stared between him and Mum.
“Good morning, Margaret. Thank you for taking Charlie. Here’s his clothes. I’ve written his routine, school details…”
“And when will you be back from this… *business trip*?” Her voice was deep and rough, almost like a man’s.
*Is she a man in disguise?* Charlie wondered.
“A week, maybe sooner,” Mum said.
Charlie’s chest stung. He looked up, eyes brimming with hurt. “Don’t go. Please take me with you,” he pleaded, gripping her coat.
Margaret’s hands clamped on his shoulders, sharp as claws. Startled, he let go—and Mum shut the door behind her. He screamed for her, yanking at the handle.
“Quiet!” Margaret barked, releasing him. “Enough dramatics. Take your coat off. I hope your mum packed slippers—I’m not wasting money on you. My pension’s small.”
Too stubborn to undress, he crouched by the door until his legs cramped. Defeated, he unzipped his bag and found his slippers. The sight of them—so familiar—made him sob.
When he shuffled into the kitchen, Margaret was smoking at the table. He gaped—he’d never seen a grandma smoke before.
“Margaret Victoria. Can you say that? No? Just call me Margo.”
She stubbed her cigarette out like she was killing a bug, then coughed wetly, her chest rattling.
Days blurred. She barely spoke to him, just smoked and watched telly. One afternoon, he came home to find his bag packed.
“Is Mum back?” he asked excitedly.
“No.”
The next morning, Margo drove him to a big house that looked like a posh school. Before he could read the sign, she dragged him inside. She left without a word, and the headmistress led him down a long hall into a dorm with ten beds.
Four boys walked in, sizing him up. The oldest smirked. “New kid. What’s your name?”
“Did your mum dump you or die?” another jeered.
“She’s on a work trip,” Charlie whispered.
“Yeah, right!” They laughed. “She’s off with some bloke and dumped you here.”
They emptied his bag, stealing his clothes and books. He fought back, but they shoved him down. Only when the matron, Mrs. Simmons, stormed in with a mop did they scatter.
That night, they held him under a blanket and beat him. Humiliated, he wet himself. By morning, the boys were parading his sheet around, laughing.
Life became a nightmare. Even Margo’s flat seemed like paradise now. He fought constantly, cried in corners, calling for Mum.
When he got older, he tried running away—twice—but the police always brought him back. Mrs. Simmons was the only one kind to him, letting him hide in her cupboard.
“Be patient, love. Don’t let the world harden you,” she’d say.
At eighteen, she gave him her address. “Visit me. Stay out of trouble. What’ll you do now?”
“Work and study,” he said firmly.
“Good lad.”
Freedom was overwhelming—pizza, ice cream, wandering London. He visited Mrs. Simmons, who fed him soup and sighed over his hardships.
He got a flat—dingy, reeking of smoke and booze. Mrs. Simmons gave him curtains and dishes. He worked at a factory, enrolled in university by mail.
At winter exams, he met Emily. Her parents forbade her from seeing him when they learned he was an orphan.
But Emily stayed. She cried often, saying her parents threatened to move her away.
“Move in with me, then. I earn enough.”
One night, after another row, she did. Her parents called the police, but his clean record kept them safe.
For the first time, Charlie had a family.
Then, Emily’s parents wanted to meet him. As he adjusted his tie, she smiled. “You look like a groom.”
“I *am* a groom.”
The doorbell rang. Emily returned, puzzled. “It’s for you.”
“Who?”
“Just look.”
A woman stood there—worn, unfamiliar. “Charlie? I’m your mum.”
The word *Mum* should’ve stirred warmth. But all he felt was old tears.
“You don’t recognise me?” Her voice trembled.
“I don’t know you,” he said flatly.
She babbled apologies, but he cut her off. “You left me. I needed you—where were you when I was beaten, starving?”
She fell to her knees. “Charlie—”
He recoiled. “I was *seven*. I can’t forgive you.”
Emily scolded him after she left. “She’s your *mother*! You’re heartless.”
They argued. She stormed out.
Alone, he wandered outside—and saw the woman on a bench, crying. He sat far from her.
“Why come now? Lonely? Old?” he spat.
She left, stumbling.
Then—something made him call out. “Wait!”
She turned. He didn’t know why he stopped her. He felt nothing for her.
“How’d you find me?”
“The children’s home. A matron told me.” *Mrs. Simmons.*
“Where do you live?”
She handed him a slip of paper—already written, as if she’d known he’d reject her. He pocketed it.
Emily returned late. She’d gone to his mother’s.
“She was a courier. Got caught with drugs—prison, then illness. She nearly died.”
“You believe her?”
Days later, Emily said softly, “She’s in hospital. Dying.”
He arrived too late.
At her grave, he felt nothing but a hollow ache. Had she ever really been his mother?
Years passed. Charlie became a father himself. Sometimes, he thought he’d forgiven her. But watching his son sleep, he knew—some wounds never heal.
Some loves are lost before they’re ever found.
