Son

We weren’t posh. We weren’t tragic. Just a boy and a girl in normal schools, armed with sarcasm, and the occasional perfectly timed cruelty. You’d lean in — “Watch this…” — and some poor bastard never recovered. I’d try not to laugh. Rik Mayall on the telly, Ade screaming like a maniac, and we memorised it all. Every ridiculous meltdown, every absurd insult. We didn’t watch it. We studied it. You, my magnificent bastard, Son. And then life — funny, twisted thing — you became a landlady. Tee-total. Pouring pints for a room full of wobbly philosophers while your hair glowed in colours that no natural light should allow. Handbag swinging like a baton. Music on, and you owned the floor. And then came motherhood. One daughter hard as nails, testing every limit, and you stood steady — even when it wasn’t easy. One daughter born to dance and sing, stage lights in her veins, and you watched, pretending it was normal while your chest nearly cracked with pride. We thought sharpness was power. Turns out power is endurance. Staying, loving, adjusting, even when the world doesn’t make it easy. Still sharp. Still dangerous. Still capable of wiping a bastard off the map with six words. And somehow, Son, you became the fiercest mother I know. No flash. No applause. Just doing it. Still the girl with the wild hair, the handbag choreography, the perfect punchline. Still my co-conspirator. Still my Son.