So?
I'm stuck at the moment, some time around 11 o'clock at night 5th of June last year when I opened the door to the police to be told that my son was having a CT scan, that he was alive, they didn't know how badly injured he was, but I can get in the car NOW and go to the hospital. Phoning my husband who was searching... Waiting... Then the blue light, the siren Us huddled together in the back of the car, me dreading what I would have to accept. So many, many bleak moments to follow. Opening the door is the sticky moment, the hot moment, I feel my blood draining away and a mixture of wanting to run, but also a need to curl up in to a tight ball and vanish. In my memory there is nothing I did right that night. My memory is sound-tracked by my daughter's anger because I didn't want to report Josh as a missing person... I didn't want to make it real. He was terrified of the police... The six weeks of the summer holiday this year have been hard, worse, like sitting in