**MUM, DON’T LEAVE ME!**
A rainy evening in Manchester. Nearly forty years have passed since my son Timothy died, yet the pain hasn’t eased. I still can’t accept it, still can’t understand why we were burdened with such sorrow—why he left so soon, leaving a wound in my heart that never heals.
**The Heavenly Child**
My husband and I hesitated for years before trying for another child. My parents didn’t support the idea either when I tentatively brought it up. Our eldest, Emily, was the centre of our world, doted on, never wanting for love. A new baby would change everything—infants demand so much.
But one day, we took the leap. Emily was already eleven, bright, well-behaved, excelling in school. The age gap seemed perfect.
I won’t pretend I longed for a son. By then, I’d built a career at a research institute, earned my doctorate. A child meant pressing pause, losing myself in nappies and night feeds, and that scared me.
Then, on the 12th of September 1973, Timothy was born. From the start, he was different. As he grew, we marvelled—he drew like a proper artist, spoke in sentences far beyond his years, astounded us with his wisdom. And those golden curls! Like an angel’s. Gentle, sweet, he glowed from within.
I remember him at four, when the strangeness began. Once, he ran to me from his room, sunlight haloing him like a saint’s. A man’s voice, unfamiliar, hissed in my mind: *Look and remember—you’ll never see this again.*
After that, the voice haunted me. In silence, in dreams, always with the same dread: something terrible was coming. Unstoppable. Close.
**The Omen**
June 1978. We sent Tim to stay with my mum at her cottage in the Lake District while Emily went to summer camp. Every weekend, we drove up, but instead of joy, my mother complained—he fought with the local boys, disobeyed, turned sullen.
How I curse myself now! We never asked *why*. Was he crying for help? Instead, we took him to a doctor, who said his body lagged behind his mind. Useless herbs. Useless advice.
One afternoon, we drove to the river for a swim—too far to walk, and Tim loved water. But that day, he fussed, wore us out in hours. Again, the voice: *Look and remember!* I turned and locked eyes with a neighbour—the grandmother of a boy Tim had fought. Her stare burned with hate, like a curse.
Now I think back—Tim didn’t *want* to go to the cottage. He clung to me, hugged me tight, whispering, *Mum, don’t leave me!* And I didn’t listen.
Other signs came. A week before it happened, Emily begged us to bring Tim to camp to see her. Odd—she barely noticed him usually. Had we agreed, he’d have stayed in the city. Maybe then… But we dismissed it as inconvenient.
The day it happened, I meant to drive up—bring the herbs the doctor prescribed. At the last moment, I changed my mind.
Midnight. A knock. My uncle stood there, grim. *Katherine, pack your things. Tim’s drowned.* At first, I heard *drowning* and flew into action, asking no questions.
Then, on the road, the truth hit me like a wave. I refused to believe it. My boy—gone in the murky pond behind the cottage. No one saw.
Mum didn’t realise he was missing at first. By the time they searched, called neighbours, someone dared to dive… It was too late. They pulled him out, but nothing could be done.
**Living With It**
All these years, I’ve wondered—did our doubts poison him? Children sense things. Why did he leave so soon? Maybe his purpose here was done, as some say now. Maybe that neighbour *did* curse us. Or was it simpler—just our neglect? I’ll never know.
Twelve years later, Emily had a son. At the age Tim was when he died, my grandson looked just like him. Terrified of water, too. Sometimes, I wonder if Tim’s soul came back, forgiving us.
But the guilt remains. Every day, I hear him: *Mum, don’t leave me!* And every day, I hate myself for not listening.
