I rang her on the third day.
I was still on the ward. It was about ten at night and my son was asleep on my chest with his white streak sticking up, and I rang her before I could think about it.
She picked up on the second ring.
I said: Mum.
And I could not say anything else.
And my mother, who I had not spoken to in five years, who I had called jealous at her own kitchen table, said:
Which hospital.
That is all. Two words.
Not I told you so. Not what’s happened. Not after all this time.
She was there in fifty minutes. She lives an hour and ten away.
She sat in the chair by my bed until about four in the morning and she held him, and she did not say one single word about the wedding or about Tobiah or about the five years, and she has not said one since.
