Coded Postcard Messages

'I'm having a good time... but I want to come home...'

So said the words on the postcard that dropped through my letter box this morning. The postcard was from Bear and clearly it was a cry for help. I read it through again slowly.

'Hi Mum and Vicci,' she began and I could easily imagine her little freckled face crumpled up in grief as she wrote those words.

'I'm having a good time...' she continued and I could clearly tell that she felt compelled to say that, it was obvious that she didn't mean it. The teacher was probably standing over her insiting that she write something cheerful.

'I miss you loads,' she added, 'and I want to come home.' My heart crumpled as I imagined her little hand shaking to keep the pencil steady. Was that a tear stain I could see in the corner, right next to the stamp?

'Please write me a letter back,' she finished. That clinched it, this was obviously code for 'please come and get me'.

I looked out of the window and wondered how long it would take me to get to Oxford, clearly the princess needed me to assist in her escape. She was missing me, needing her Mommy... two hours maybe three if I set off immediately...

'Don't even think about it,' the boyf said following my line of vision.
'Bear wants to come home!' I replied edging towards my car keys.
'No,' he said . 'You want her to come home. Leave her be.'
See now that is the exact response I would expect from a man with no kids, he obviously doesn't understand. He thinks she'll be fine, he doesn't pick up on the subtle naunces in her postcard, the coded messages only her mom can understand...
'She's probably starving,' I said.
'Well that'll teach her to eat what she's given,' the boyf replied.
I glared.
'It's your fault she's a fuusy eater, you've babied her for too long,' he added.
Now that is so not true, Bear eats at least ten different food types. I imagined her now being faced with some awful concoction across the dinner table... something with a sauce on (she doesn't eat wet food).
'She needs me to rescue her!' I insisted.

Maybe I should give some context here before your imagination runs away with you, Bear has not been abducted by aliens or sold to a mining company up t'north. No what actually happened is that three days ago she was cruely snatched from my bosom to take part in the coming of age ritual known as school camp.

She's gone to spend an ENTIRE week in Oxford. She left Monday morning, it's now wednesday and it's another two whole days before she comes home. Five days in total pulled from my side, wrenched from my bosom! The last two and a half days have been awful...

On monday night Vix, sick of my whining over Bears absence dressed her Minnie Mouse teddy in Bear's clothes and propped her on the sofa with a pokemon book... it didn't work - I could clearly tell it wasn't Bear, the ears were too big. Plus the Minnie/Bear did not sing along to Glee

Then on Tuesday night, having lost my voice to some awful virus and therefore being unable to bemaon Bear's absence I took to dotting her books about the place as if they were mid-read, sniffing her t-shirt and arranging her bed so it looked as though she was in there asleep.

Wednesday AKA today the postcard arrived and I realised that she was suffering as much as I...

Now at the time when I signed her up I was thinking it would be good for her, that she'd enjoy being away from me and that it would be a chance for her to become a bit more independent. We had fun packing her suitcase and matching all her little outfits up.

Now though, I see the error of my ways. What was I thinking? Five days is far too long for a ten year old to be away from her mom - it's just too many hours.

'Mom, she'd die of shame if you actually turned up,' Vix insisted. 'I was fine when I went, she'll be fine as well.'
'You phoned me in tears on the second day even though you weren't allowed to use the phone!' I replied.
'Yes, well...'

See that's another thing Bear wasn't even allowed to take her phone, if she had it I could text her and reassure myself that she's being fed, that she's bothered showering, that her clothes match. But no, the only contact permitted is via letter or postcard. I look over the postcard again... yes the cry for help was clear... should I respond?