You won’t remember this. You’re four. But I will, forever.

We’d been in our new house for three days when we found the park, and my son stood at the edge of it the way he always does, watching, not moving, waiting to see if anyone would notice him. And you noticed him.

You didn’t ask where he’d come from or how long he’d be here for, you just handed him a stick, mumbled something about spiderman, and that was that. You were pals.

I watched it happen from the bench, checking in, but letting you both find your way. Still holding my breath. I’m always holding my breath.

Since then it’s been a whole year of park trips after nursery, of him talking about you at breakfast, of him telling stories about what you get up to together each day, of him accidentally calling me your name, blushing, and doing it again in excitement.

In his little life he’s had a lot of new parks, a lot of new starts, three houses and two nurseries already. Most children his age haven’t. He adapts in his own way. They call it ‘resilience’. That word just makes me feel sad. He’s only four.

You gave him a friendship where he didn’t need to be tough. He just got to be a boy with a best friend.

I don’t know what your Mummy thought when she noticed that we were the family that moves. Maybe nothing. Maybe she wondered whether it was worth it, letting you two get close over something that had an end date wedged into it from the start. I’m glad she let it happen anyway.

Your Mummy is a super-star!

This part’s for her, really. Could you let your Mummy know how she’s raising an amazing little boy, a kind boy who helped make this year better? A boy who helped with the move. And a boy who let me just breathe a little easier that day in the park.

She didn’t need to welcome the ‘new family’ – she has her circle of friends, Mums from her maternity leave, the Bump & Baby groups, established friendships that already existed, friendships I’ve had to leave behind more times than I can bear to think about. 

She didn’t need to make eye contact that day, or make an effort, or even acknowledge us. So many didn’t. But that one “oh, hello. I’m his Mum, who are you?” meant everything to me.

But, now there’s a part of military life I try not to think about too much. If one day we move, I don’t know how I’ll tell him. How do you say goodbye to a park, a stick, a boy who made an entire year feel like home? There isn’t a way that doesn’t end with him crying at the swings.

So if that day ever comes I’ll make sure both of them know none of it would be his fault, or yours. We don’t want to go. This normal, stable, easy friendship between our boys, and us, in this unassuming park is our favourite part of the day.

This isn’t just a throw away kind of thank you. It’s the kind where I mean it: thank you for the year of giggles, for the spiderman stick, and for not caring that he was new.

I hope you know that you and your kindness have made this year bearable for a lonely, worried military mum.

And if one day we drift, or move, or just don’t need the park anymore, my little boy won’t ever forget the boy from the park. Neither will I.