She answered on the second ring, her voice warm and familiar and full of a love that had never once wavered. "Danny? How did it go?"
"I passed, Mum," I said, and my voice cracked on the last word.
There was a silence on the other end of the line, and then I heard her crying. Not sobbing, not dramatically, just the quiet, overwhelmed tears of a woman who had watched her son kick a punctured ball against a garage door on a council estate in Moss Side and had always, always believed he would end up here. "I knew you would," she said, her voice thick. "I always knew."
We talked for twenty minutes. About the course, about the club, about the season ahead. She asked about Emma. I told her she was fine, that she was coming to pick me up. My mum laughed. "She's a good one, that girl," she said. "Don't mess it up."
"I'll try my best," I said.
I hung up and called Emma. She answered immediately. "Well?" she said, without preamble.
"I passed."
