It is dusk. I enter his bedroom quietly.
He is sitting up in the little single bed. I think he’s waiting for me. He looks up at me with a mixture of hope and wariness. He has the bowl haircut popular with boys in the seventies and is wearing flanalette pyjamas.
I edge closer to the side of the bed. He lifts up into a crouch and, unexpectedly, throws himself into my arms, his legs wrapped around me, his arms around my neck, the way my 5 year old does to me.
I am floored by my love for him. It overwhelms me.
I need to take him away from this house. I feel hope brighten in him at the thought. But, I’ll need to make preparations and plans. I can’t just take him right away.
The tonne of grief returns. I see him alone and frightened in his bed, anxious, waiting for me to return.
I realise we have to go. Together
Right now.
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