Then seven passed.

I called his phone, and it went straight to voicemail.

Then seven-thirty, and still nothing, and by now I was standing at the kitchen window watching the street, my dinner going cold, calling his phone every few minutes and getting the same recorded voice each time.

It was nearly eight o’clock when I finally heard the back door open.

I rushed into the hallway, relief and anger and fear all colliding in my chest, the whole speech of a frightened mother already forming on my lips.

And then I saw him, and every word of it died in my throat, and I simply froze.