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On the radio there was a thing inviting people to phone in with their guilty secrets from childhood. I laughed out loud at the 47-year-old man who confessed he’d never, until then, told his

mother that the 200 gatecrashers who’d turned up at his 17th birthday party hadn’t actually been gatecrashers. He’d delivered flyers around the neighbourhood, inviting everyone. I perfectly

understand why he didn’t tell her at the time, but to keep it a secret for 30 years seems a little extreme. Fifteen would be more reasonable, but maybe the occasion never arose. No best

man’s speech at a wedding. Or maybe she was just a very scary mother. When my son was at primary school, I worked with someone who said his sons had ’fessed up in their twenties. They’d done

it in the pub with him one night, the manly way, coming out with the, “Dad, we think it’s finally time we told you all the stuff we couldn’t tell you at the time,” line. Wow, I thought,

that’s impressive. What a tribute to successful parenting. I hoped when my turn came, I’d be rewarded in the same way. So when Doug got into his mid-twenties, with a responsible job and a

bit of daylight between him and university, I decided to prompt him. Was he ready, I asked lightly, to share with me the things he hadn’t been able to at the time? He shied like a startled

horse. “Er, not yet,” he said. And I accepted it with good grace, as a model parent would. The years passed. This spring, when he was 30, he escaped lockdown in London and arrived home with

a hired box van full of his possessions. Advertisement “I’ll come and watch you unload,” I said. He looked momentarily panicked, then took a breath. “Mother, there’s something I’ve got to

tell you.” Indeed there was. There, lurking at the back of the box van – indeed the only reason to hire such a big vehicle – was a motorbike. His elaborate plea for mitigation came tumbling

out: he’d had it for ages (“Oh, that old thing! Been in the wardrobe for years!”); it was a touring bike, and therefore very staid and stable and sit-up-and-beg, like a dairymaid’s bicycle.

(As if I had a clue what a touring bike was.) It was old and inexpensive, but came from a good dealer and was in great nick. And he never, ever went fast, and he was always very, very

careful. And, and, and – the final, case-winning flourish for the defence – he’d bought a very expensive airbag vest which he wore on every journey. For my sake. Long before my own injury,

I’d been phobic about motorbikes. When he was a teenager, I’d banned them. Too fast, too exposed, too risky. In fact, very much like horses, if I’d been rational about it – but considerably

more predictable than an animal with a mind of its own. We always fear the unknown. Besides, no matter how careful the biker, they can’t control the carelessness of car drivers, and I knew

about that. I didn’t say very much. There wasn’t much to say. When it was offloaded, I circled it warily, trying to be polite with, “Gosh,” and, “It’s big,” just as non-horsey friends would

once upon a time eye my animals from a distance and say vaguely, “Nice horse,” or, “He’s huge!” I inspected Doug’s airbag vest closely, enviously, wishing I’d worn one. Advertisement Over

the summer I watched, full of trepidation, as he went off for rides. I’d keep furiously busy to stop myself catastrophising and clock-watching until he came back. Poor boy, what burdens my

anxiety projects on him. My girlfriends were incredulous. “Did I just see Doug on a motorbike?” asked one, out for a walk. When he returned south, after lockdown, I watched him put it on a

special trailer and tie it with ratchet straps, as carefully as I ever loaded a horse. He has promised me he won’t ride it in foul or icy weather. And so I must be content. I trust him. I

refuse to catastrophise. When I asked him permission to tell this story, I added a PS about all the other things he’d never confessed. “One day you will need to tell me more,” I said. “One

day,” he agreed. And added a grinning emoji. It probably will take him 30 years. _@Mel_ReidTimes_ Melanie Reid is tetraplegic after breaking her neck and back in a riding accident in April

2010