John-boy and the Laddie
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On the Friday that my mother died, my father came over to collect me from the family that I was boarding with. But he was earlier than usual. So, when I walked home from school and saw his truck outside at the house, I knew instantly why he was there. But I didn’t want to admit it to myself, I just began to cry and collapsed at his truck, sliding down against the back wheel of it, heartbroken. I didn’t need to be told, because I had always known that it was going to happen eventually. But now it had happened. I didn’t want to believe it. I just cried, because I could not imagine how I would be able to adjust my life without her being there by my side. The lady of the family that I was staying with came outside to gather in the washing off the line. When she saw me slumped against the truck, she rushed over to me and dropped onto her knees in front of me and hugged me tightly with tears of empathy starting to run down her face. “I’m so sorry, Pet!” She gasped, has she held my face in both her hands, and kissed the top of my head in a heartbroken manner. Then dad came rushing out of the house when he realised that I was there. He lifted me up and gave me a kiss, while putting me in the front seat of the truck, after he had disentangled my arms from around his neck. When dad gave me a kiss, I was confused at the show of his emotions, because dad never showed his feelings in any way, such had been his way of life; because his Welsh police sergeant father, had taught him how to never show his feelings in public, no matter what the cause of them might be. He didn’t say very much on the way home, he just kept looking at me now and again, out of the corner of his eyes. When we arrived home, he asked me gently if I would like to go upstairs and say goodbye to Mum in my own way. As he was saying this, Olga, my mum’s nurse from the hospital, came down the stairs from the bedroom, where she had been washing mum and combing her hair in preparation for me visiting her when I got home. Olga upon seeing me, rushed down the stairs and threw her arms around my neck and kissed my wet face, while hugging me. I stood at the bottom of the stairs for a while not wanting to mount them because I knew what I would be confronted with when I reached the top of the stairs and saw her. There would be hearty welcome from her, and no warm arms that she always greeted me with when I bent over her to give her a happy kiss. My tears that had stopped, started to well up in me again as I ascended halfway up the stairs, and then I had to sit down and try to establish some sort of control over myself. But I couldn’t, because my body just refused to move, and I just sat there for quite a while before I could make myself move. From where I sat on the stairs, I could see that mum’s bedroom door was slightly ajar, instilling in me a sense of mystery as to how she might look in death; because I was remembering how Terry had looked, all those years ago, lying all alone in his coffin with a stoney white face, but looking very peaceful. Eventually, I climbed the rest of the stairs and pushed the door open gently. And there she was! The woman who had done so much for me during her short, complicated, and hard life. She looked so peaceful with her dark crinkly hair well brushed and laying gently down each side of her face, with her arms crossed over her breasts in a gentle manner. I approached her bed slowly because I could feel the pressure of my tears building up again, but I could not contain them, they burst like water spilling over the top of a dam. I leaned over the edge of the bed, putting my hands on her on her hands as I kissed her gently on the side of her face, which let my tears fall on her face as I caressed her. She was cold: stone cold! I suddenly had the urge to warm her up, so I got onto the bed and laid beside her, cradling the top of her head with my arm. I fall asleep with her even though she was cold. I don’t know how long that I was asleep for, until Dad woke me up when he gently covered me with a blanket and tip- toed out of the bedroom.
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About the Book
This novel is a fictionalized account of one man’s harrowing childhood shaped by grief, abandonment, and the quite yearning for love and belonging. Inspired by true events, the story follows a young boy as he navigates a fractured family life after his mother is hospitalized and he is placed in institutional care. Through vivid “windows” into key memories, readers witness deeply emotional moments: a mother’s anguish at being separated from her children, a boy’s struggle to understand life inside a welfare home, and the quiet bravery it takes to keep loving those who are slipping away. At the heart of the story is the boy’s relationship with his mother. A woman who, despite her suffering remained spiritually resilient and emotionally present until her final days. From secret baptisms to heartbreaking goodbyes, the novel captures the sorrow and intimacy of loss with unflinching honesty. But this is not just a story of sadness, it is a tribute to the strength of the human spirit, to kindness from unexpected places, and to the enduring hope that no matter the pain, love finds a way to leave its mark. Written with emotional clarity and depth, this book invites readers into a world where even the darkest moments hold traces of light. It is a testimony to childhoods that weren’t easy and to the adult who still carries those memories quietly within themselves as they progress through adolescence experiencing all the adventures, that young adulthood provides with all its pleasures and hidden social pitfalls has they experiment with their newly found maturity.
About the Author
John Millard was born in England and raised during a time of great emotional and social upheaval caused by the Second World War. Though his story is fictionalized for privacy and legal reasons, it draws heavily from his lived experiences growing up in the shadow of family trauma, loss, and institutional care. From a young age, John bore witness to the devastating effects of illness, poverty, separation, and grief. Life events that shaped his worldview and ultimately inspired him to write. Through his debut novel, John revisits his past not with bitterness but with deep compassion, seeking to honour those who came before him while shedding light on the painful realities many children quietly endure. His writing style is raw, reflective, and quietly powerful, offering readers a glimpse into a life shaped by hardships, resilience and emotional endurance. Now retired, John lives a quiet life in New Zealand where he enjoys reading, writing and reflecting, and time with his family. This book represents not only a creative achievement but also a personal healing journey. One he hopes will resonate with readers who have also experienced loss, abandonment, or the complexities of navigating broken social systems.