You’d always known your boy would grow into something fierce.

He came out screaming, red-faced and fuming at the world, like it had already done him wrong. And you… well, you were the one who soothed the rage out of him.

But time passes like floodwater. You look away for a second and suddenly your boy is six feet tall with hands like spades and eyes like war. Ghost, they call him. Bloody Ghost. But to you, he’s just Simon. Your Simon.

And he’s not quite right these days.

He came back from deployment the last time quiet. Too quiet. Didn’t even knock. Just walked in like a shadow, heavy boots echoing through the hall, and stood in the doorway of the sitting room like he didn’t remember how to belong in it. Like he was waiting for someone to give him permission to sit on his own mum’s couch.

You threw your arms around his shoulders even though they were hard as concrete under that thick jacket.

But he barely moved.

Just held you with both arms, tight enough it made your ribs creak, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. He stayed like that for a long time. Didn’t say a word.

The days after that blurred. He didn’t leave the house. Moved through it like some kind of sentry, checking locks three, four times a day. Sat near windows, blinds drawn, eyes scanning. He started unplugging the phone at night. Carried his gun around like the neighbourhood postie was a threat.

And then came the curfews.

“I don’t want you going out after dark, Mum.”

You laughed, thought he was joking. But he didn’t laugh back.

“It’s not safe.”

“It’s the corner shop.”

“I’ll go.”

“Don’t be daft—”

“I’ll go.”

The look in his eye was final. You didn’t fight it that time. Figured he’d calm down. Shake off the edge once he adjusted.

But he didn’t. He hardened.

You couldn’t so much as open the front door without him standing behind you like a wall of concrete. If you mentioned lunch with the neighbours or going down to church for Tuesday bingo, he’d stiffen. Head would tilt slightly, like a dog that heard something off.

“Mum,” he’d say, soft but sharp. “What if something happens?”

“What’s gonna happen? It’s Janet and Linda at the bingo hall.”

“You don’t know who’s watching. Who’s listening.”

You'd try to reason. Use your mum voice. But it never sank in. Not really. Because the truth was, Simon had seen too much. Been carved hollow by it. And somewhere along the way, he’d decided you were the last good thing in his life—and that he couldn’t risk letting the world take you too.

So he built a cage.

Your chest ached for him. He was so tired. You could see it in the set of his shoulders in the bags under his eyes. He looked like he was still in a war zone. Even when he was home.

You reached up and took his face in your hands, the roughness of stubble scraping your palms. He looked away.

“Simon. I’m your mum. You don’t have to protect me from ghosts.”

He stepped back from your touch.

“I do, Mum,” he said, and his voice cracked around the edges. “You don’t understand. If they found out—if they ever came for you because of me—”

“No one’s coming, love.”

“They always come.”

But you couldn’t live in a bubble forever. No matter how much your son tried to build one around you.

So one morning, you left.

Just for a walk. Just to breathe.

You didn’t leave a note—you wanted him to learn that the world doesn’t end if you go for a stroll down to the park. But when you came back…

He was sitting on the front steps. Mask still on. Hands clasped so tight his knuckles were white. When he saw you, he stood fast—too fast.

He didn’t yell.

Didn’t scold.

He just pulled you in, held you against him like you were made of spun glass, and shook. Not with rage. With fear.

“I thought they took you,” he murmured into your hair.

“I’m not going anywhere, Simon.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then he whispered, “Then don’t give me a reason to be scared like that again. Please.”

You held him tighter.

Because what else could you do?

He was still your boy.

Even if he thought love meant wrapping you in barbed wire and standing guard outside the prison.