He came home this week. The preamble to his return was, as ever, fraught. I don’t want to linger on that today. He came home. He was clean and sober. He spent time with us, chatted to us, helped around the house and participated in family life. He cried and said he wished desperately to change his life. He told us he’d had enough of being a train wreck. He told us he could see how cannabis had changed his character. He told us it had stolen his desire for everything, how he didn’t even want a girlfriend because all he wanted was weed and alcohol. He cried when he told us how he regretted the way he behaved when he lived here. He said sorry a multitude of times for hurting us. He met an old friend, went for a walk and stayed sober. He cried about that too because he reflected that if he hadn’t behaved the way he did, he’d have more friends to meet when he came home to visit. He came for walks with us and ate with us and helped around the house of his own accord. He spoke about his plans to pick up with DJing and music production. He looked out his equipment and set it up, ready to take with him. He spoke about getting DJ lessons – this time paid for by himself and arranged by himself (the previous effort had been another desperate attempt of mine to set him on a path). He spoke about his future for the first time. Not for the first time recently – for the first time EVER.

His wee sister spoke to him a handful of times and was less impressed at his return home. Teenagers are not so understanding and his carnage has touched her life too. She might come round eventually but she’s entitled to feel the way she feels.

As for us? My husband and I realised that we don’t really know our son. We knew him when he was a wee boy. But we’ve never met the adult version of him. The drugs and alcohol got him before we did. This week, we got a look at him and ohhh man; we liked what we saw. He left this morning to go back to college. And now I’ll live out the next few months worrying and hoping and praying, if I’ll ever get to meet that man, my son, again.