I grew up in a country so different from the UK - war-torn, dangerous. But, as a 19-year-old girl, I wasn’t so different to the trendy teens I see in my home town of Croydon now. I loved fashion, boys, pop music.
But, more than anything, I loved my 12-month-old son Junior.
‘Mummy’s going to miss you,’ I told him one day in December 1998.
I was driving to a neighbouring country on family business, would be away for a few days.
I missed Junior something rotten, but he was safe with my family and, before long, I was on my way back.
Singing along to my car stereo, I thought of Junior and smiled. I couldn’t wait to kiss his chubby cheeks.
But, as I approached the border, two…
