“A husband you can divorce, but children are forever!”
“Come in quick! My sister’s here!” called Margaret to her neighbor Grace as soon as she appeared at the doorstep of their home in Manchester.
“Eleanor? Surely not! How many years has it been?” gasped Grace, stepping into the cozy kitchen.
Seated on a chair was an elegant woman with a weary but warm smile. Seeing Grace, Eleanor sprang up and rushed to embrace her. They had been friends since childhood, sharing joys and sorrows, and now, after so many years apart, their reunion felt like stepping back into those carefree days.
“We must celebrate! It’s been two whole years!” Grace suggested, and the women, settling around the table, lost themselves in conversation. Each had her own story, soaked in the happiness and heartache that life had generously doled out.
Eleanor had been a widow for six years. Her husband, Edward, had died in a car crash—alongside his mistress. For a year, he had led a double life, and Eleanor had noticed nothing. She had sensed something was wrong between them but, for the sake of their children—a son and a daughter—had fought to save the marriage. They adored their father, and she couldn’t bear to shatter their world.
But the accident had changed everything. The children, shattered by grief, took years to recover. Eleanor, crushed by her own sorrow, tried to be their rock, but the pain ate away at their family from within.
“My William is a tyrant, truly,” sighed Grace, sipping her tea. “Read about toxic relationships online—it’s him to a tee. Thank goodness I kicked him out before he got worse.”
“Husbands are one thing,” Eleanor said bitterly. “You can divorce them. But children… children you can’t escape. After Edward died, mine became utterly uncontrollable. We all grieved, but my son—he blamed me for everything. Said it was our arguments that drove his father to another woman. That the stress made him reckless, and that’s why he crashed. Now my son hates me. Told me I should’ve died instead. Can you imagine, Grace? That I should’ve—”
She fell silent, her voice trembling, eyes brimming with tears. Grace and Margaret sat wordless. Eleanor took a breath and went on:
“He’s turned into a brute. Only nineteen, and I’m terrified of him. It’s not just insults—he gets violent. I endure it because… what else can I do? Report my own son? He even harasses my sister for defending me. The other day, he was so furious he slammed her head against the table—just because we went for a walk together. He apologized, of course, but the next day, it started again. I pray the army will sort him out. My daughter and I fled here just to breathe freely for a while.”
Grace watched her friend, heart aching. She knew how much Eleanor suffered but couldn’t find the right words. Margaret, Eleanor’s sister, sat quietly, twisting a napkin, her own eyes glistening.
“You know,” Eleanor continued, “I keep asking—where did I go wrong? I wanted to be a good mother, but my son sees me as the enemy. He blames me for everything gone awry in his life. And I… I don’t know how to go on.”
“It’s unbearable,” Grace whispered. “How can he treat his own mother like this? He must see you’re not at fault!”
“He doesn’t want to see,” Eleanor shook her head. “It’s easier for him to hate. And I’m afraid he’ll ruin not just my life, but my sister’s too. She puts up with his rages for my sake.”
Margaret finally lifted her gaze. “Ellie, I’ll never regret standing by you. He’s your son, but this can’t go on. We must do something—talk to him, or get him to a counselor?”
“A counselor?” Eleanor gave a bitter laugh. “He’d never listen. Says it’s all my fault, full stop.”
The kitchen fell into a silence as heavy as storm clouds. Each woman felt the other’s pain, yet none knew how to ease it. Grace, desperate to lighten the mood, raised her cup.
“To us, girls… that we find the strength to carry on, no matter the husbands or children who break our hearts.”
Eleanor and Margaret smiled faintly, but tears still pooled in their eyes. They clinked their cups, though there was no joy in the toast. Eleanor gazed out the window as dusk settled, thinking of her son. She still loved him, despite the pain he caused. But deep down, she feared that love might yet be her undoing.
