I remember the time around your birth vividly. My waters had broken and as there were no signs of contractions, you were induced and arrived the following morning at 3.50am – all 7lb 4oz of you. When I held you for the first time, you were truly the most beautiful and perfect thing I had ever seen. Everything and everyone else looked dirty and jaded but you looked and smelled and felt like perfection. I have loved you unreservedly since that moment.

During your adolescence, you were growing increasingly troubled. The turbulence between your dad and myself, I realise now, had a deep and lasting impact on you. For that I am truly sorry.

At 16, you looked lost. You moved out – fiercely maintaining your individualism and your independence. I did not stop you, as having you live at home was really hard by then.

I have watched you grow. Seen you struggle with your deep and growing reliance on illegal substances. Celebrated the arrival of your two beautiful children. Delighted at how you embraced fatherhood; your capability, even-temperedness, calmness and kindness amazed me.

Then the dark clouds. Desperate money problems, relationship breakdown – overdoses, homelessness, chaos and loneliness. And, finally, the realisation that you, my lovely son, are a heroin and crack addict living a most appalling life.

Over the past four years, I have watched you systematically destroying yourself. Sometimes it has felt too difficult to bear.

But today, we are at the launderette, spending some rare mother and son time together.

Your jaw was broken in a fight a few weeks ago. You are thin and gaunt, and carry a pungent smell on you.

We load the washing into the machines. Your clothes are peppered with blood stains, like a map indicating where you inject.

You tell me that you need clean clothes as you may shortly be going to a treatment centre if the funding can be secured.

It is the only news I want to hear and you know it.

But I don’t allow my hopes to rise. Those stay well hidden these days as they have been smashed so many times before.

We go for a coffee and talk a little and laugh and smile together.

I recognise and welcome the feeling of normality that is not normal for us.

It is a good time.

We go our separate ways, but you are always in my thoughts.

Love

Mum xxx