My four-year-old wheeled a suitcase through the Hong Kong airport, ahead of my toddler and me. He stepped onto the escalator, turned back, and beamed. So brave, so independent, he ascended. But his smile twisted to a frown as his suitcase twisted off the step, threatening to pull him down. His eyes whispered fear. They beckoned me. Everything in me wanted to run to him but I stood, frozen.

A nearby man helped him pull the suitcase upright and I was glad, but that didn’t change my response. I had failed my son. Devastated, I was haunted by the question: Will I fail him again?

Fear grew.

The next year I approached another escalator, this one in a Hong Kong subway station. I was holding my second son’s hand and now I had a new baby – another life entrusted to my care. With infant strapped to my chest, the three of us stepped onto the descending escalator – my husband and oldest son were right behind. As five of the five million travelling the Hong Kong subway that day, we were sandwiched into the crowd.

I’d heard stories of people being trampled but, having grown up in a small town, they didn’t seem real – until that day. We reached the bottom of the escalator and I stepped off. “Mom,” my boy said, as I felt him resist my pull, “I’m stuck.” We were blocking the exit and the flow of people couldn’t stop. I moved to face my son. Brian and our oldest walked past, seemingly unaware, and people squeezed through the opening. I, with reflex speed, discovered the problem. I tried to pull his shoe free but the escalator had sunk its teeth into the soft sole of his Croc and wouldn’t release it. Voices, in a language I didn’t know, murmured panic. “Brian,” I called. I wanted to turn to him for help but there wasn’t time, I had to act.

I tried to remove his foot but I was working against the force of the escalator as it pushed his heel down and pulled the sole of his shoe farther into its jaws. People bumped us as they tried to squeeze past. A man loomed behind my son. There’s nowhere for him to go. I tried to manoeuvre my son’s foot as the man jumped over the rail. He was followed by another, and another. People kept coming. “I can’t get it off,” I shouted.

With a calm that surprised me, I anchored my hands around my son’s chest and pulled hard. With baby strapped to me, my back strained under the pressure. I pulled harder. He broke free. Murmurs of relief rose like a wave through the crowd as we moved away from the stream of people. But my relief was the greatest – my boy was safe.

My fear that I couldn’t protect my children was appeased.

Once the crowd thinned, Brian yanked the remains of the Croc free. Onlookers pointed at what looked like a puppy’s chew toy, with strap torn and a hole gnawed in the bottom.

Now, years later, as I stand at the bottom of this same escalator, the scene is alive in my mind. I put my arm around my boy and feel relief wash over me again. He smiles. He now stands with me, nearly eye to eye. I look from him to my other kids and the fear still nags. When they need me, will I be able to protect my children?

But being here reminds me, while there are times as a mother I fail, there was also a time I saved my son with a strength I didn’t know I had, hidden within.