I feel it. The quickening, desperate gasp, sucking air; heel rapidly vibrating. One moment, panic. DV - complex, protracted trauma.

The middle one yells - curses, lies, and threatens. Closing my eyes, he sounds like him - his father. My torturer.

But I love him. He's, my son.

The older one finishes work; an hour later, still nothing. Minutes tick slowly; calls remain unanswered. Nightmares envision his battered and lifeless body in the gutter.

The younger one assures me, "Breathe, mum. Just breathe." Slow. Slower. "There you go."

Finally, he calls. Sorry mum, friends.

But I love him. He's, my son.

***