“If I survive can I go home?” The words echo through my head, firing about my mind like a collection of bullets. I hate myself for what I’m about to do, hate every fibre in my body. “Yes, yes you can go home.” I rasp, unable to function properly. “This...this is for your own good.” I stare longingly into the eyes of my one and only son, my little boy, my baby. I force my teeth down on my lip, so hard that I draw blood. “Now.” I whisper into his ear, “You must be brave, I know you can and will be.” He nods, too innocent and naive to face the vast evils of this world. I raise my hands above his head and envelope him into a bone crunching hug. He squeals as I lift him from the ground and twirl around, my pinafore spiralling, with him in my grasp.

When I let him down I know it’s time to go.

“Right are you ready? You better have your suitcase because you shan’t leave without it, or you shall be in deep trouble, do you understand?” My tone becomes, stern, as solid as rock. I kiss him on the forehead attaching a small brown paper tag about his neck. I felt as if I was giving away my little boy, selling him for a price to a safer, warmer family, a family that was more than I could ever provide. “Now.” I croak “You are going to be brave, brave for your farther who is fighting for our country, and you are going to be brave FOR me.” He nods, linking his fingers with mine and leaning in until the tips of our heads touch. “You are going to a safe place.” I sob, unable to contain it any longer, “You WILL be ok, I swear on my very own life I shan’t let anything happen to you.” I brush the tears from my cheeks and lead my little boy from the front of the house.

We walk to the train station, I am curtain I will spend as much time with my son as I possibly can before I ship him off and away to a different family, a different life. Without me. I steal his hand and link his arm in mine as we stroll down the sidewalk towards where we shall depart from each other. He continues to ask me questions “Shall the family I stay with be cruel?, will they treat me good? , will they live in a castle? , will they have wings like a fairy, and one single eye like a cyclops?” These are all questions I cannot and will not answer. I hold on to the gas mask box at my side, clutching it with an iron grip. I watch as other parents begin to cry, nearing the train station and wishing their own children goodbye.

The air smells heavily of smoke, children and adults bustle around the cobble and tracks, sounds fill the air. The crunch of an apple against baby teeth, the kiss of a mother against a small cheek, the sound of pattering school-shoed feet against stone slabs. I watch as the children disperse from their adults, filling into lines behind their class teachers who will then assign them a seat on the train. I stare down at my boy, knowing I shall have to let him go in less than a few minutes. My heart begins to swell in my chest and I feel as if I shall die, right in this spot, right now and right here.

I enclose my arms around my son, afraid this shall be the last time we embrace, the last time we lay eyes on each other. I think about all the possible things that could go wrong, the deaths and injuries and misfortunes that could undoubtedly occur. I breath my baby in, memories flood my vision. Him as a baby swaddled in blue fabric, singing and speaking gently to himself, him in the bathtub blowing bubbles and laughing like a hyena, him playing with his stuffed animals, him waving his father goodbye as he left to fight, him making me a cuppa each time I began to tremble with fear of my husbands death, him on Mother’s Day whispering into my ear that I was, in fact the bestest mother in the entire universe. I take one last moment, one last breath, one last memory, one last second of happiness before I realise.

I hand him his gas mask, his lunch - packed full to the brim with notes of love and sweets and chocolate - and make sure he still has his suitcase. “Goodbye my love!” I cry, but he doesn’t hear me because he’s already submerged in a conversation with his school friends. They witter on about what adventures they shall have, how they will play soldier and battle each other and fall asleep beneath the stars. I watch him bored the train, watch him fall into his adventure. It’s all just a game to him, an “adventure” and once more I tremble, knowing I shall not see my beautiful, naive, kind, loving son for a very long time.