My name is Alice. And my son is a murderer.’Deborah’s son was killed four years ago. Alice’s son is in prison for committing that crime.
Deborah would give anything to have her boy back, and Alice would do anything to right her son’s wrongs.
Driven by guilt and the need for redemption, Alice has started a support group for parents with troubled children. But as the network begins to grow, she soon finds out just how easy it is for one little lie to spiral out of control…
They call it mother’s intuition, but can you ever really know your own child?
Things are moving along nicely now. I couldn’t imagine being at this point before: feeling more positive than I have in years. I even feel a bit lighter. I noticed my reflection in the shop windows as I walked past this morning, and I’m standing taller too – not stooped as I had been. This is good. I want to mark this progression somehow.
I should share it.
As founder and leader of the group, it’s my duty to give positive news to my members. Tell them about the steps forwards I’ve made. Of course, I’ll have to be slightly economical with the truth – mould it to make it fit. But it will give them hope. Inspiration. Let them know we can all come through these terrible times, bit by bit. Moment by moment. I’ll finish washing the breakfast dishes, then I’ll get on the laptop
and go to the online support group page. Our next in-person meeting isn’t for another eight days – the last Wednesday of the month. Maybe by then I’ll have even more good news to share.
More to celebrate.
My heart sinks a little as I gaze out of the kitchen window. Is it right to feel this way? Excited about a few minor steps in the right direction? There’s still so much to do; such a long way to travel to get to the end. If there is an end. Oh, please God, let there be an ending to this. I make the sign of the cross on my
chest. Before all of this happened, I’d go to church to pray; being in God’s house made me feel as though I had a direct link with Him. After the murder, though, I was afraid. They’d know. I couldn’t face being judged by the congregation. And, after all, my support group is giving me what the church once did, and
God is everywhere – I don’t have to be in a holy place to pray, to be listened to. So now, at times like this, I look to Heaven for help, wherever I am. Surely I deserve some help, some divine intervention.