One-way ticket

At eight years of age, her mother told her she never wanted her, she was a mistake, and for the nine months she carried her, she had tried everything to end the pregnancy and wished she had never existed ever since.

At eight years of age he was scared, longing for the loving arms of his mother. The lady was kind and comforted him, promising to take care of him until Mummy returned.

At 13, her teacher told her she was a waste of space and would never amount to anything. She had dared to say she didn’t understand what the teacher was saying and asked her if she could explain it once more. She wanted to learn. Sometimes she just needed things explained a little further. She never raised her hand or opened her mouth again. She became invisible and lost in the system called ‘Education’.

At 13, he was nurtured in school and at home by his foster parents, both teachers. He wanted to learn; they encouraged him.

At 18, the man she thought had loved her, the only man ever to pay attention to her, told her he would take her life if she told anyone the child she was carrying was his.

At 18, he achieved the highest results in his Leaving Cert and a scholarship to his dream university. His foster parents hugged him, reassuring him, his mam would be so proud. He wished she was here, they wished she could be found.

At 24, her landlord locked her out of a dingy bedsit, because she was two days late with the rent. Three hours later, her mother slammed the door in her face when she asked for refuge.

At 24, he graduated with a PhD in Social Work, his passion. Now he wanted to find his mother and find out why she had been lost within this system. His foster parents were supportive.

At 25, she pulled herself out of the hospital bed, with a broken jaw, black and blue after a beating from her boyfriend. She pleaded with the social worker to let her see her son before they took him away.

At 25, he met his first love, the first person he told how much he still yearned for his mother.

At 29, she sat shivering in a doorway, alone, and willed sleep to come. Her insides met with hunger. She longed for his little arms around her neck.

At 29, he turned the key to his first home with his now wife and their little girl. He called her after his mother, still hoping to find her.

At 35, with track marks all over her body, all at different stages of healing, she shuffled and begged on the busy streets for her next fix. She needed that fix to block out the terrors in her head, thoughts of her child not happy. She prayed to the skies he was.

At 35, he found records of her body, found lifeless, alone for weeks in an unused warehouse, invisible to all. Her only belonging, a well-worn picture of a little boy with the faded words on the back, ‘Mummy loves you forever baby boy.’ He is suddenly eight years old; the words being whispered in his ear before he is lifted off her hospital bed.

That day he was given a chance, she was given a one-way ticket to the end.

• Jacqui Wiley is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am in the Annebrook House Hotel.