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The door opens and I inhale deeply, only to see a stranger answering in my mum’s place. A middle-aged woman with a welcoming smile.
“Can I help you?” the strange woman asks.
“I’m here to see my mum, Miranda Hemingway.”
Her brows knit together, and I take a step back.
“I’m sorry, but no one lives here by that name. Are you sure you have the right address?”
Is this woman crazy? Of course I know where my mother lives. I grew up in this house.
“This is my mother’s house. Where is she?”
“Look, I moved in three days ago. This is my house now.”
What? No, that can’t be right. The confusion weighs heavily across my chest, and I stumble back from the door.
She warned me I wouldn’t be able to see him, but I just thought she meant she’d keep him away from me, not move to a new fucking house.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Did she leave a forwarding address or something? Anything about where she moved to?”
The woman shakes her head and steps back into the house. “Sorry, but no.”
She closes the door, and I barely remember to pick up my bag as I numbly walk away from the house I believed my son was safe and staying at. I’ve made it through the last eight weeks imagining him watching cartoons in the living room, sleeping in my old room, playing on the same swing set I did as a kid. The thing should’ve been taken down years ago, but it still stands.
With my phone’s battery dead, I rush to the bus stop. My house is only a bus ride from here, and I need to charge it quickly.
I woke up this morning, not sure I could be any happier, and now my world is crashing down around me. So much so, I don’t remember getting on the bus. I don’t remember walking to my house or unlocking the door. But as I step inside, a new prison greets me. While the prison I left behind was a constant battle of noise, this is one of silence.
It's only a small, two-bedroom house, but before my life went to shit, it was my haven. It was mine and Thomas’s, and after I locked the door, it was the two of us against the world.
Digging my phone out of my bag, I rush upstairs to my room, ignoring Thomas’s empty bedroom, and plug my phone into the charger.
It takes an eternity for the screen to light up, but once I type in my passcode, I scroll through my contacts until I get to my mum’s number.
Placing the call, I press it to my ear and pace as far as the charger will allow me. I can’t sit still, and every ring that hits my ear is another moment causing my panic to surge.
As soon as she answers, the fear of her changing her number disappears, and I snap, “You moved! Where is my son?”
Her sigh fills the line. “Evie. I forgot you were being released today. How are you?”
How am I? Is she being serious?
“How do you think I’m doing? I want to see my son. He should be at home with me.”
“I explained what was going to happen with Thomas on my last visit. He’s going to stay with me until you prove you can provide for him without having to resort to shoplifting to feed him! Get a job, hold it down, and you’ll get him back.”
“Why the hell did you move?”
“Well, that was out of my control. My landlord was selling the house, and I had to. It just worked out that I had Thomas at the time.”
“I need to see him, Mum.”
“Get a job, and we’ll arrange for you to visit.”
She hangs up, and I drop the phone onto my bed, my hands shaking. This isn’t happening. Every day it was Thomas who got me through the hell I ended up in, and I’m still living it, only without bars on my windows.
Roaming through the empty house, I check the cupboards and find them empty. I have no hope there’ll be anything in the fridge, but I still open it and check. Nothing. Not even a pint of soured milk. My mum has a key, and she must’ve cleared it out.
