The rain was lashing down, making the world seem even harsher than usual. That old black iron gate rattled in the gusts, and water was pooling along the flagstone path, glimmering under the streetlights. Right there in the middle was an old mum, standing in her battered grey mac, soaked right through, gripping the front of her dress as if she could feel her heart breaking all over again.
Her son didnt go to her. He didnt give her a hug. Didnt kiss her on the forehead. Didnt ask her to come inside for a cuppa. Instead, he shoved a heavy jute sack hard into her armsso sudden it nearly knocked her back.
Take the flour and go, Mum.
Thats it. Thats all he said. No warmth, no gentleness, wouldnt even look her in the eye. Just that harsh, flat voice men use when theyre trying to swallow their own pain before anyone can see it.
Through the rain, she squinted up at him. For just a second, her face crumplednot because of the weight, but because he felt so distant. A mum knows when her sons pushing her away, like hes hiding something even scarier than anger.
Behind him, just under the porch-light, a younger woman was standing with her arms folded, her face a blank, her presence icy and, honestly, a bit intimidating. The son glanced at her, then stepped back from his mum in a rush, as if sticking around another moment might make him say something he couldnt take back.
Mum just nodded. She always nodded, no matter how much it hurt. Even now, standing sodden in the rain, all she wanted was for her boy to look at her like he used to, before life wore him down.
She turned and set off alone, hugging the sack close, raindrops seeping right through her cardigan and running off her chin. She only let herself cry once she was inside.
Her little flat was gloomya battered pine table, a narrow bed, a streaky window full of rainwater. The sort of place where every creak and sigh is just you and your thoughts. She dropped the sack onto the table with both hands and stood there for a bit, chest heaving, trying to stop her hands from shaking.
She undid the rough knot on the sack.
No flour. Nothing spilled out at all. She went still.
Inside was a single white envelope, her sons handwriting on the front: Mum.
For a second she couldnt breathe.
Carefully, like she was touching something dangerous, she picked out the envelope and slid it open.
Money. A big wad of itmore than shed seen in a very long time, all in crisp twenty-pound notes. Underneath it, a folded bit of paper.
She could barely open it, her hands were shaking so much. The first line almost floored her.
Im sorry, Mum.
She pressed a hand to her lips, tears threatening. Rain tapped out a rhythm behind her.
I couldnt say it with her there. I told you it was flour because she never misses a thing. Please dont come back looking for me. Dont ask where the moneys from. Just get out before it gets dark.
Tears spilled over. That wasnt a son pushing his mum away. That was her boy, trying to protect her.
Her fingers fumbled over the next bit.
If I stay, shell keep taking everything I have. If I run, youll be the first person she comes after. Im making you leave before I do anything I cant fix.
A small, cracked sound came out of her. She unfolded the last line.
And then, cold as anything, the truth sank in.
By the time you read this, Ill either be gone or shell know.
She clapped a hand over her mouth, spun to the window
And there he was. Still out by the gate, alone, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, not moving. Not a heartless son. Just a scared little boy lost inside a grown man.
He lifted a trembling hand and wiped away tears he didnt want anyone to see.
Then, the young woman followed him out into the rainand she was holding a gun.