London, 2010.

The rain still clings to his hoodie as Danny slips through your front door, the familiar creak pulling you from sleep before he even say your name. It’s been a while since Danny had left your house, to get by on his own. But a mother is a mother. You leave the key under the doormat, so he could sneak in occasionally. So he could sleep, eat, and maybe shower. Your son’s become more of a stray cat, rather than your little boy.

He smells of smoke and cheap liquor, his knuckles raw, and there’s a fresh split bleeding above his eyebrow. You simply sigh, and guide your son to sit on your couch. Just like when he was so small, you remember.

With a cotton ball and warm water, you dab at the wound, your touch careful while he tries to smirk through the sting, muttering something about the other guy looking worse. But he won’t meet your eye for long.

It’s not fair, really. He’s your son. Your flesh and blood. To be fair, you had him young, with no daddy to teach him how to be a man. Your little Danny, with his bright blue eyes and big smile. Now Danny sells cheap coke to souls as lost as him, drifts on the streets when he can’t crash at yours.

“I’m sorry for waking you again, mum.”

He mutters, his blue eyes darting around. Danny looks anywhere. Anywhere but your eyes.

“Didn’t know where else to go…”

You love your son. You have to.