**The First Shame**
I must have been just over four years old. The nursery in our little town near Bristol felt like a safe little world, where everything had its place. There was one girl I especially liked—Emily. Her dark plaits, tied with great scarlet ribbons, seemed almost magical to me. I was smitten.
One day, I offered her a piece of my Malted Milk biscuit. In return, she broke off a square of her Dairy Milk chocolate. It felt like our own little secret, and I was overjoyed. But there was one thing that ruined everything—nap time.
Nap time was my nightmare. Every time I closed my eyes, the same dream would come: I was floating down a quiet river, the water so clear I could see rainbow trout darting beneath me, and I glided effortlessly along the surface, light as a feather. But waking up was a horror. I’d find myself in a damp bed, panic tightening my chest, scrambling to hide it.
Hiding it was impossible. I’d try to cover the wet patch with the blanket, praying no one noticed. But the nursery assistant—always stern—would find it straight away. She’d strip the sheets without a word while I stood to the side, feeling every pair of eyes in the room burning into me. It happened two or three times a week. At home, my parents reassured me: *“It’ll pass, it’s just a phase.”* They took me to a doctor, who peered uselessly down my throat and prescribed drops. Then there was another man, a cheerful friend of Dad’s—some kind of child psychologist, I think. He played draughts with me, joked around, and swore it would get better. But nothing changed.
Then, one awful afternoon, it happened again. The nursery assistant was changing my sheets, and I stood there, pinned under their stares, wishing the floor would swallow me. But worst of all was Emily’s face. Her big scarlet ribbons swayed as she turned to look at me, and my heart splintered with shame.
The sheets were hung out to dry right opposite our classroom. Mine, with its awful stain, hung in the middle like a flag of disgrace. I tried to comfort myself: *“How would anyone know it’s mine?”* There were other kids like me, but then Tommy’s voice cut through:
“He wet the bed!” he crowed, jabbing a finger at me.
“I did not!” I snapped back, but my voice cracked.
“You did! Look, there’s your sheet! Bet you can’t deny it!”
I went silent. What could I say? The other children giggled, even the ones whose own sheets hung there too. How could I explain that I didn’t mean to, that it happened in my sleep, that the doctors had promised it would stop? My face burned as I searched for Emily’s gaze and wished I could vanish.
Desperate, I bolted to the little park behind the nursery. I pushed through the tall grass to the far fence and collapsed by an old oak. I lay there, staring up at the rustling leaves, time stretching endlessly. An hour passed. Maybe two. I couldn’t go back.
My parents came looking. I don’t know how Mum spotted me in that tangle of greenery, but suddenly her furious face loomed over me:
“Here he is!” she snapped at Dad. “I can’t even speak to him right now—you deal with him!”
She stormed off. Dad crouched beside me, his voice gentle but strained:
“Son… what were you thinking? We’ve been worried sick.”
With him, I could always be honest. The tears came in a flood:
“Dad, no one can fix it. I—I wet the bed again. Everyone saw. They all laughed, pointed at me…”
“Who? Tell me their names. I’ll have words.”
“All of them, Dad.”
He sighed, pulled me into a hug, and murmured:
“Lad, it happens. It’ll pass. I did the same when I was your age. We’ll go to the pictures this weekend, buy you that Lego set you wanted…”
But I didn’t care about toys. Shame was choking me.
“I’m not going back to nursery!”
Dad looked helpless.
“Son, we both work. Your sister’s at school. Who’d look after you?”
“Myself! I’m big enough!”
“No,” he said gently. “Just hold on a bit longer. We’ll figure something out.”
So *I* figured it out. I wouldn’t sleep during nap time. No sleep meant no river dream, no accidents. Simple. I’d pretend, keep my eyes shut, think of other things—like visiting Gran and Grandad in their Cotswold village.
Next day, I was ready. The other children lay down, the teacher adjusted blankets. I squeezed my eyes shut, recalling Gran’s cherry scones, the birdhouse Grandad helped me build. I could almost smell the butter, hear the wood creaking in the breeze…
Then the image shifted. The cottage was by the river. I leapt from the window into the water, Grandad cheering *“That’s it, swim!”* The trout shimmered around me—
I woke up. Drenched.
*How?!* I hated myself.
Again, the stares, the whispers. I couldn’t face Emily. This time, I didn’t wait for the assistant. I fled to the store cupboard, wedged myself on the narrow steps, and curled into a ball. I knew they’d find me, but I needed just a little longer.
Footsteps. The door creaked. And there she was—Emily. Her scarlet ribbons glowed in the dim light. My heart sank. I wanted to cry, *“I tried, I really did!”* But she just sat beside me, placed her small hand on mine like she was years older, and whispered:
“You know… I still love you.”
I froze. My throat clenched—not from shame, but something new. Warm. *Happy.* We sat there, two tiny children, and that silence held more comfort than any doctor’s words. I didn’t know where she’d learned kindness like that. But she knew—love was the only thing that could heal shame.
In that store cupboard, I was happy. And Emily? From that day, I never wet the bed again.
Now, forty-two years later, I wonder: how did that little girl know so much? How did she understand love could fix anything? Her words saved me at four years old, and I’ve carried them my whole life.
