Final farewell

It was the last time Rachel would ever see her son. If only he knew¼

Bittersweet. I don' t think I ever really understood that word well, I was always better at maths than English.

But as I' m standing here with all the other parents at the clap out' ceremony on the very last day of school for our year 13 pupils, the meaning of bittersweet hits me with perfect clarity.

As I watch my son Leo sitting with his fellow students, his friends, on chairs at the front facing us, I can' t help but notice he isn' t his usual cheeky, laid-back self.

His face is serious, almost stern. I want to rush across the hall and hug him, but I can' t.

What is he thinking? Is he nervous about the speech he is about to make on behalf of the entire year?

Is he concerned about the multiple choices for his future that lie before him? Is there something really serious troubling him?

Tara, who is sitting next to him, whispers something in his ear. That cheeky smile that melts hearts is back.

Leo walks up to the microphone. His speech is almost a comedy routine, and everyone is in stitches. As people laugh, I want to shout: That' s my son!'

But I don' t of course. I couldn' t do that to him.

It' s hot in the hall, even though the fans are on high. People wave improvised paper fans made from the ceremony programme in their faces. But I don' t care how hot it is or how long the ceremony takes. I just want to remember every moment, savour every minute.

Other people make speeches and songs are sung, but I never take my eyes off my son.

Before we know it, it' s time for the final part of the ceremony the clap out. A long-held school tradition.

Parents and teachers alike are invited to line the pathway from the hall to the front gate, creating a human hallway. When we' re all in place, a drum beat begins. Slow, deep, ominous.

Everyone except the year 13s clap in time with the drum. This is the beginning, the beginning of the end.

One by one, the students leave the hall to the steady beat. They throw their arms around loved ones lining the path. Smiling, tear-streaked faces go past. I promise myself I won' t cry when I see Leo, even though I already feel a lump in my throat the size of a boulder.

As more students walk past, the drum beat is increasing in speed, the clapping too.

Finally I see Leo approaching, but he doesn' t see me yet.

It strikes me that he' s almost a man and I see clearly how much like his father he looks now the oval shape of his face, the nose, the forehead. Only his eyes are the same colour as mine

but I don' t think he has ever noticed.

He is slow walking up the human hallway, stopping every two seconds to hug someone he knows. Finally, Leo sees me. He runs up, arms out wide, and envelops me in a tight hug. I wish that time could freeze right now

no past, no tomorrow, just this moment forever.

My throat is on fire, my eyes sting, but I' m still fighting hard to keep the tears away. Leo pulls back, holds me by the upper arms and smiles.

Miss Henderson, you really are my favourite teacher, you know. Thanks for everything.

You' ve really been not just a great maths teacher, but a friend as well. I' ll never forget you.'

He gives me one more quick hug and then turns and walks away.

He heads towards the two people he calls Mum and Dad, the couple who adopted my son when I was just 15. For years they would send photos and tell me his progress.

Later, when I became a teacher at the high school they had earmarked for Leo, they didn' t object as long as I didn' t reveal who I was.

The drums stop. Leo smiles, then heads out the school gates for the very last time. I stare at his back and it hits me, my short precious time with my son is over.

I can' t fight it any more, the tears begin to flow bittersweet tears.

He is slow walking up the human hallway, stopping every two seconds to hug someone