The Price Of A Life

The reunion I longed for with my son is now impossible

- FRANCES LEATE, EMIKA BERRY

As I walked out of the cafe, I stopped in my tracks.

Is that him?

The Christmas lights had lit up a face I knew across the street. My son Ashley Cochrane. I desperately wanted to call out his name.

It was November 2017, and we hadn’t spoken for almost a year. We’d fallen out over the silliest things.

From the washing-up not being done to him drinking too much.

They were petty squabbles that I now regretted.

Eventually, Ashley, 29, had got a job in a factory, moved out and rented his own place across town.

He stopped replying to my texts and wasn’t picking up my calls, either.

And the longer we’d left it, the harder it was to break the ice.

All I wanted was to rush over and give him a big hug.

But what if it only makes things worse? With a heavy heart, I turned and started walking home. As the kaleidoscope of flashing colours lit up the high street, I thought of all the happy times at Christmas we’d shared. A few years back, I’d bought him a onesie. He’d grumbled trying it on, but we’d fallen about laughing.

The youngest of my three children, Ashley had always been my baby.

We’d go on holiday together to Benidorm and Ibiza, drinking cocktails by the pool, or belting out cheesy hits in the karaoke bars as the sun went down.

‘Not again, Mum!’ he groaned, red-faced, as I got up to sing the Carpenters, Close to You.