April 2013. My eight year old son went for a holiday up north for a supposedly ten day trip. Day seven the phone rings, it’s him.”Daaaaaad can I have an X-box”? I can hear something under his voice I’m not quite sure but there’s an underlying tone. “Are you having a nice time”? I ask. Silence. Then like a smack in the face it hits me. He’s missing us, he’s missing home, he’s home-sick. I selfishly play along for two or three minutes enjoying the knowledge he thinks is only his. He’s only eight and I can hear the disguise he’s putting on his voice, the maturity of his actions are admirable. His two elder siblings never went for so long so I’ve yet to hear it from them. Yet! (Uni’s on the way) But it’s no good trying to conceal his feelings from me he’s made from my DNA and I know. He’s my boy and I know exactly what he wants. He wanted to come home. He wanted me to say- I’ll be there- I won’t be long- you just watch and see. I didn’t say anything though, I wanted to surprise him.
I broke the speed limit for most of the 200 miles to get to him. I didn’t care, I ‘d pay the fines all day if it meant arriving there sooner. He never seen my approach, perfect. He never realised it was me who snuggled into his neck and kissed him. No words exist to describe his reactions upon realising I was actually there. They never have and never will. His grand parents knew he wasn’t himself and tried to molly coddle him. It worked for a while but only I knew what his true feeling were and only I could understand his desire or need for a miracle. His came true, we were back home within two hours. From nowhere came his saviour and whisked him off to happiness. His admiring looks on the journey all the way home confirmed it to me. This is the stuff dreams are made of, I hope he remembers it as much as I will. Also, because I love him that much I said no to the X-box.