“Mum, Don’t Go”
After supper, Mum sat beside seven-year-old Jeremy and draped an arm over his shoulders. He tensed. The last time she’d done that, she’d told him she was going away on business, and he’d have to stay with Auntie Margaret. The problem was Auntie Margaret’s daughter, Chloe—a spiteful, stuck-up girl who tattled on him and called him a runt.
“You’re going away again, aren’t you? I don’t want to stay with Auntie Margaret. Chloe’s awful,” Jeremy said, peering up at his mum.
She smiled, ruffling his messy hair. He took it as a sign to push further.
“Mum, please, take me with you,” he pleaded.
“I can’t. I’ll be working all day. What would you even do there alone?” She stood abruptly, pacing the room.
“You always say I’m a big boy now. I don’t want to stay with Auntie Margaret and Chloe. Can’t I just stay home?”
“Stop whinging!” she snapped. “You’re too young to be on your own. What if something happened? If you won’t go to Auntie Margaret’s, I’ll send you to Gran’s.”
“In Manchester?” His eyes lit up.
“No. Your father’s mum.”
Jeremy blinked. He didn’t even know he had another grandmother.
“I don’t want to,” he muttered, just in case.
“I wasn’t asking. Pack your schoolbooks and whatever else you want. I’ll get your things ready.”
Jeremy’s heart thumped unsteadily. Last time she left him with Auntie Margaret, he hadn’t needed a bag. That meant she’d be gone a long time.
“I don’t want to take my things. Can’t I just go with you?” he begged.
“Enough! Big boys don’t cry.”
“But I’m not a big boy,” he sniffled.
The next morning, he dressed slowly, hoping she’d change her mind, or lose patience and let him stay. Instead, she snapped at him for making them late—the taxi was waiting, there’d be no time for breakfast.
They rode through London, then up a lift that climbed higher and higher. The doors slid open on the eleventh floor, and Mum nudged him toward a steel-grey door.
The woman who answered didn’t look like any grandmother he knew. She wore a long red dressing gown embroidered with golden phoenixes, her hair piled high. She curled her lip at Jeremy like he was something unpleasant she’d found stuck to her shoe. Adults usually cooed over him, asked who this handsome lad was—but this woman just stared, eyes flicking between him and Mum.
“Hello, Margot. Thank you for taking him. I’ve packed his clothes, written down his routine, what he likes to eat, his school’s address…”
“And when will you be back from this… *business trip*?” Her voice was rough, like a man’s.
*Maybe she is a man in disguise*, Jeremy thought.
“A week, maybe sooner,” Mum said.
Jeremy’s heart sank. He looked up at her, eyes wet with betrayal.
“Don’t go. Mummy, take me with you,” he whispered, clutching her coat.
Margot’s hands clamped painfully on his shoulders, making him let go. The door shut behind Mum. Jeremy screamed, yanking the handle, pounding the wood.
“Shut it!” Margot barked, releasing him. “Enough of this carry-on. Take your coat off. I hope your mother packed your slippers? I’m not wasting my pension on you.” She floated away, leaving him alone.
Hot and stubborn, he refused to undress, slumping against the door until his legs ached. Finally, he unzipped his jacket. Too short to reach the hook, he draped it over the shoe rack. When he unzipped his bag and saw his slippers, the familiarity made him sob.
By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, Margot was smoking at the table. He gaped—he’d never seen a grandmother smoke before.
“My name is Margot Beaufort. Can you manage that?” She stubbed her cigarette out like she was crushing a bug, then coughed, something rattling deep in her chest.
How long did he stay there? It felt like forever. They barely spoke. She took him to school twice, then let him go alone. She smoked, watched telly all day.
Then, one afternoon, he came home to find his bag packed in the hallway.
“Is Mum back?” he asked, hopeful.
“No.”
The next morning, Margot drove him to a two-storey building that looked like a grim nursery. He didn’t catch the name above the door. He sat sweating in a corridor while Margot spoke to the headmaster.
When she left, she didn’t even glance at him. The headmaster led him down a long hallway, voices spilling from every door. Upstairs, she showed him a room with ten beds in neat rows.
Before he could breathe, four boys swarmed in. Two were much older. Four pairs of eyes pinned him down.
“New kid, what’s your name?” the biggest one asked.
“Your mum lose custody, or did she get hit by a car?” another sneered.
“She’s on a business trip,” Jeremy squeaked.
They burst out laughing. “Right. She found herself a bloke and dumped you here so you wouldn’t cramp her style.”
“That’s not true—she’s coming back!”
They upended his bag, scattering his things, dividing his clothes and books between them. He fought, but what chance did he have? They shoved him, kicked him. Rage made him bold—he headbutted one in the stomach, slamming him into a wall. The others pounced.
It might’ve ended badly if Miss Simmons, the caretaker, hadn’t charged in with her mop, scattering them.
That night, they held him under his blanket and beat him. Humiliated, he wet himself. By morning, they were parading his sheet around, howling with laughter.
Life in the care home was hell. Margot’s flat seemed like paradise now. He fought constantly, got punished constantly. He hid in corners, crying for his mum.
When he got older, he ran away twice. They caught him, dragged him back. Miss Simmons pitied him. He’d hide in her broom closet, listening to her comforts: *”Hold on, love. Don’t let the bad ones harden your heart.”*
When he aged out, she gave him her address. *”Come see me. Stay away from trouble. What’ll you do now?”*
*”Work. Study,”* he said firmly.
*”Good lad. No future without an education.”*
He gorged on freedom, on fish and chips and ice cream, then went to Miss Simmons. She fed him soup, sighing over his hard luck.
Later, he got a flat—dingy, stinking of smoke and stale beer. He patched it up. Miss Simmons gave him old curtains, some dishes. And so began his life: factory work, night classes in engineering.
At college, he met Milly. Her parents forbade her from seeing him when they learned he was care home-raised. But she stayed. After one too many rows, she ran away to him. Her parents called the police, but his employers vouched for him. They were left alone.
For the first time, he had family. Eventually, her parents relented. He dressed carefully for the meeting.
“You look like a groom,” Milly teased.
“I am.”
When the doorbell rang, she answered—then returned, confused.
“Someone for you.”
“Who?”
“Just look.”
The word *”Mum”* does something to people. It conjures warmth, safety. But Jeremy only remembered tears. The last time he’d seen her, she’d handed him to Margot.
In the hallway stood a woman who could’ve been fifty or seventy. Nothing stirred in him.
“Don’t you recognise me, Jeremy? I’m your mum,” she said, eyes darting nervously.
“I don’t know you,” he replied flatly.
She babbled, words tumbling: *”I’m sorry. I know you’ve forgotten me. I just wanted to see you. You’ve grown so tall—I wouldn’t have known you.”*
“Seen enough?” He turned to leave, but Milly grabbed his arm.
“Jeremy, she’s your *mum*.”
“I don’t have a mother. She left me. Get out,” he spat.
“Son, I had… problems. Then I was ill. An operation. I didn’t know if I’d live—”
“Well, you did,” he sneered. “Why come now? I needed you when they beat me in that place, when I cried for you!” His voice cracked. *Men don’t cry.*
She hid her face. Shoulders shaking.
“I cried too, remember? Begged you not to go. *Just take me with you.*He turned away, leaving her there on the bench, and walked back inside, the weight of years pressing down like the cold, endless rain.
