Mummy's Boy - J A Andrews Page 0,2

that he will walk in one day as if he had never left. When he does, I will make him his favourite dinner – a nice chicken with roast potatoes. My Andrew loves his roast potatoes.

‘Your potatoes are the best, Mum,’ he used to tell me. ‘Nothing is as good as your roast dinner. Dad tries his best, but I do prefer yours.’

I miss his lousy attitude too: the way he never did what the hell he was told. I understand he was almost an adult, a grown man in his own right, but he was our only child. As his mother, all I want is the best for him. Nothing could have ever prepared me for the feeling of loss and helplessness that day he walked out of the door and never came home. You hear about it happening up and down the country, but that’s other people’s children, not mine. The realisation that my son is missing can be too much to handle. My brain is continually working overtime, wondering what we’ve missed and looking for the links.

Sitting here, at the same kitchen table, as I face the back door I am reliving that day. I look at the door with a new birthday card in my hand just in case he should wander back home. The sun is glistening through the window with the light catching the floor to illuminate a space of warmth. It reminds me of our old dog, who used to sit in those sunspots to sleep. I wish I could get some sleep, just one decent night.

You would think that on his birthday he might remember his family – today of all days make some form of contact with his father and me?

If he does not come home today, I will place the card in his room with all the others I have bought him over the last three years. Birthdays, Christmases, Easter; if I do not buy a card, I feel it is as though I am letting go of him. I don’t want to let go of his memories. I want him to see that I still care even if he’s not around. That I have included him as part of this family. There’s nothing more I want than for him to walk through the door and say how sorry he is. Being left without any explanation is the most torturous feeling with my anxiety issues. I can’t seem to forgive myself even though the anger towards him for what he has done lingers.

He is twenty years old now, I tell myself. He may even have children of his own. I could be a grandmother. I’ll never forget holding him in my arms the day we walked out of the hospital together. That was the day that my life changed forever. I was a mother.

At times I daydream about looking after the grandchildren or all of us being one big happy family at Christmas time. Missing potentially significant moments in his life, which could include him getting married, having children, is disturbing me. The not knowing anything is what hurts the most: the guilt I live with cuts deep.

There wasn’t even a note. You hear that some children leave home, but at least they voice their reasons on a piece of paper on the kitchen table – or in their bedroom. I scoured Andrew’s room top to bottom and found nothing. After the first few days I had turned the whole house upside-down in case I had missed something, and still not a sign, nor reasonable explanation for his sudden disappearance. I convinced myself that he might have been murdered; however, now I believe he is out there somewhere, living his own life. I have to remain hopeful because no body has ever been found.

His disappearance has put a strain on my marriage to Thomas. Some nights we sit watching television without saying a word to each other all night. I know he still loves me, yet I sense he blames me in some way. Thomas doesn’t talk about Andrew anymore, which upsets me. The silence can be unnerving. I can’t just forget about him, nor will I ever give up hope.

Thomas says that we need to move on with our lives. If Andrew can walk out and forget about his parents, then we too should be selfish. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if he left because of something we had done or said. Thomas remains adamant that I