The Car That Never Stopped

A car eased onto Howden Drive, its tires whispering against the wet pavement, sending up delicate sprays of water that caught the streetlights just so, like fleeting silver ribbons unraveling in the evening. The distant hum of its engine melded with the soft patter of lingering rain, a sound both intrusive and oddly soothing in the quiet of the night. Its headlights carved through the night, casting long, fractured beams across the uneven pavement. 

They flickered as they passed the narrow gaps between houses, skimming across rain-dampened red bricks, catching in the glossy sheen of large-pane windows. The glow stretched down the slender street, illuminating stray leaves that pirouetted in the wind before vanishing into the darkness.

I listened as the engine murmured closer to our childhood home. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the last ghostly wisps of wood smoke curling from a chimney somewhere down the road. A distant radio murmured from a neighbor’s window, its melody distorted by the breeze, blending into the rhythmic patter of raindrops against the pavement.

A Familiar Ache

The clock read 9:45 PM. I knew the sound of a black taxi cab well—this was not one. The low, steady thrum settled into the background, swallowed by the hush of the night. I waited another fifteen minutes, my hope unraveling thread by thread, each second stretching out like an echo in an empty room. Then, as the clock struck 10:00 PM, certainty settled over me like an old, familiar ache.

Mummy wasn’t coming home—till after midnight, or maybe not until morning. The air held that knowledge, settling it around me like an old, familiar coat. Just like the other nights when I had waited, staring at the clock, willing the minutes to bend in my favor. The same restless evenings where I set the table for two, only to clear it alone. The same hollow ache that settled in my chest, familiar and unyielding. If she was coming home at all.

The Dessert Meant to Be Shared

With a heavy sigh, I closed the curtains, shutting out the indifferent night, turned off the television, and made my way into the kitchen. The air was thick with the scent of dark chocolate and cream, a sweetness that clung to the warmth of the room. On the counter, two tea-stained spoons lay abandoned—silent witnesses to my foolish optimism. Beside them sat the dessert I had spent the evening making: Chocolate Pots de Crème. A new recipe, one I had poured all my pocket money into, one I had imagined us sharing. I had pictured her taking the first bite, her face lighting up with approval, with something close to love. But now, as the quiet stretched long and cold, I wondered if the dessert would even be worth saving for tomorrow.

I considered taking one of the Prince Charles and Lady Diana commemorative mugs I had used as makeshift ramekins and indulging in a taste myself. Just one spoonful. Just enough to know if I had gotten it right. But I couldn’t. I never could. Because it wasn’t just about the food.

It was about her tasting it first.

Maybe it was validation I was craving.

Maybe it was something deeper.

The Silence of the Green Rotary Phone

I turned off the kitchen light, my eyes lingering on the green rotary phone hanging on the wall. That old, stubborn thing. How many nights had I stood before it, willing it to ring? How many times had I imagined her voice on the other end, calling to say she’d be home soon, calling just to check in, calling just to say something? But the phone never rang for me. She never did.

I climbed the creaky stairs, my right hand trailing along the banister, my fingers brushing over the worn wood, tracing each chip in the paint as if committing them to memory. I had walked this path so many times, each step a quiet surrender, each night ending the same way.

In disappointment.

In loneliness.

I stepped into my bedroom and flicked off the light. The walls exhaled the day’s warmth, but the sheets were cold when I climbed into bed. Loneliness had moved in long ago, slipping into the cracks, curling into the corners, settling itself deep into the marrow of my being.

And in that darkness, the tears came.

Not just for the dessert.

Not just for the empty chair at the kitchen table.

But for all the years I had spent as an afterthought.

A shadow. A child yearning for love that never came.

A Child’s Wish

They tell you that being a teenager is about discovery, about forging your path, about dreaming. But my only dream was a mother who would come home, sit beside me, and ask how my day had been. A mother who would see me. A mother who would stay.

Sleep must have found me eventually, though I do not recall its arrival.

What I do remember is this:

Some children are born into love, their lives a steady rhythm of care and affection, a melody composed of warmth and belonging.

And then there were children like us.

My darling sister. My beautiful brother.

Waiting for scraps.

The local bingo halls, the crowded pubs, the thrill of the night—those were her symphonies. And we were the silences between the notes.

We waited in the shadows, always waiting.

The Symphony of Her Snoring

Somewhere in the deep velvet of the night, I woke to a sound—the rise and fall of breath, a slow, uneven rhythm breaking the hush of the house. It was deep and guttural, with a rise and fall that carried the weight of exhaustion. A pause, then another rattling inhale. The kind of sound that settled in the bones, familiar yet unsettling, both a comfort and a reminder of all that had been left unsaid. A slow, guttural rhythm. A rise, a fall. A pause, then another rattling inhale.

She was home.

Mum’s snoring was nothing short of a performance piece—an unpredictable symphony that oscillated between a foghorn warning lost ships and a malfunctioning kettle gasping for air. Some nights, she sounded like a bear growling in slow motion; other times, it was as if a tiny accordion had lodged itself in her throat, wheezing out a tune only it understood. It was a nightly spectacle, a bizarre lullaby I had long since stopped fighting—part exasperation, part comfort, and entirely unforgettable.

I lay there in the darkness, listening to it, wondering if it meant she had dreamt a better life than the one she had given us.

The Morning After

I got out of bed, dressed in my too-tight school uniform, and went downstairs. The cold linoleum chilled my bare feet as I put the kettle on. The fridge door sighed open, and there they were—my Chocolate Pots de Crème, their surfaces smooth and glistening under the dull yellow light. I held my breath.

They looked perfect.

I was chuffed.

I made the tea and carried it upstairs, the warmth of the mug seeping through my fingers. Even at that age, I understood that forgiveness and a new day meant a fresh chapter. I nudged open her door and placed the cup on her bedside table. "Are you coming home after work tonight?" I asked.

She stirred, rubbing her eyes. "Yeah. Coronation Street is on. I think Kevin’s been cheating on Sally."

I don’t remember much about school that day, but I do remember thinking about those Pots de Crème. My first French dessert. My first time cooking in a water bath. The anticipation curled in my stomach all day.

A Bite That Changed Everything

That evening, we had Lancashire Hotpot for dinner. Mum sat in her cozy chair, the gas fire blazing, Patch—the world’s most vicious dog—curled at her feet. I carried in the two mugs of Chocolate Pots de Crème, my heart hammering.

She took the first bite.

I held my breath, watching, waiting. The spoon slipped from her lips, and she paused.

Then, she turned to me and said, "This is really, really good, Jon."

"Really?"

"Yes. Your granny would be proud of you."

And in that moment, something stirred deep in my chest—a warmth, an anchor, a truth settling into the very marrow of me.

This was the day I knew I was meant to be a chef.

Some recipes are simple. Inexpensive. But they hold power. They shape lives.

Learning to See Love Differently

Now, with time stretching long behind me, I see it—Mum did the best she could with the cards life dealt her. That realization has shaped the way I approach my own relationships—with empathy, patience, and an understanding that people love in the ways they know how. It has taught me to appreciate the small gestures, the fleeting moments of connection, and to offer the same grace to others that I once longed for myself.

Could it have been different? Yes. Should it have been? No.

Because it was her best. And despite it all, she was a woman with a kind heart and a wicked sense of humor.

She was my mum.

And on that night, she saw me.