We spoke about you last week, as we often do. Your mother asked me where we went wrong. I looked at her and shook my head. Your sister has grown into a happy, successful woman; does that not mean we must have been OK parents? And you had a happy childhood – I took you camping, cycling and to football practice. We read together, played Super Mario. You dropped out of school, but you had plans and I was supportive. But at college, unknown to us, you were introduced to heroin.
You got a job, moved out and came back once a week for dinner. And although you sometimes seemed a bit groggy, I was willing to believe it was simply what young people did: recreational drug-taking. Hadn’t I done it myself? That’s what you told me, and I believed you. But one day you reacted to a throwaway comment and, alarmed, we quizzed you. You had been taking heroin. It was no big deal, you declared, and wasn’t anything we should worry about. You told me you didn’t underestimate it. And I naively thought I could make a difference; give you a shake. But in the four years since, it’s gone the way I feared.
We tried to keep you close, but all that did was hone your skills in deception. Your keyboard was left “at a friend’s”; it wasn’t, it was sold, like everything you could get your hands on. You lost your driving licence and spent the nest egg your grandparents left you. It had worried me that you had access to it; but you were adamant you hadn’t touched it. You were so plausible.
Work became intermittent; you couldn’t keep up with your rent and moved back home, leaving us settling your arrears. Your friends told us they suspected you were stealing from them. But it was still a shock when I realised you’d raided the family jewellery and credit card. I took you to counselling. Endlessly.
I took you away to try to dry you out. You kept saying you were going clean. But you weren’t; you never were. The bruises on your face weren’t from football, but dealers’ unpaid debts. You moved out. You phoned to say you had decided to end your life, and I found you.
Now you’re due in court. Prison can’t be far away – you’ve dug down and down, until heroin is all you have. A story repeated every day across this land. But you were my only son, my lovely son. Tell me, where did we go so very wrong?
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