The Chronicles of a Life
Margaret Wilkins tried to leave her husband twice. Both times, she came back. For the sake of her son.
The first time, she fled to her parents when Alec started drinking after little Tommy was born. She couldn’t stand his drunken rages any longer—in the dead of night, clutching the baby to her chest, she slipped out of the house. Alec caught her in the garden.
“Where d’you think you’re going?”
“Away from you!”
Her mother, a village nurse, only sighed.
“Margie, love, what did you expect, marrying a lorry driver? That’s their way of celebrating—always has been.”
There was no arguing. She’d chosen this life herself. They’d met, oddly enough, in a library. Margaret was doing a placement there, and Alec walked in to return a book.
“Anything light you’d recommend?” she asked, glancing at his rough hands.
“Something about love,” he smirked, looking straight through her.
She handed him *The Remains of the Day*. A few days later, he came back—not for another book.
“Didn’t finish it… Fancy the pictures instead?”
And she said yes.
It was spring, her head full of rose-tinted dreams, her heart still young. She fell in love. Back then, if you wanted to be together, you went to the registry office. And so they did.
The wedding was small, hardly any guests. A month in, he hit her for the first time—for talking too long to the neighbour. Later, of course, he brought daisies and muttered,
“You know I’m the jealous type.”
“Is that an apology?”
“No. A warning.”
She said nothing, put the flowers in a jam jar. Covered the bruise on her cheek with powder. Forgave him.
But when the baby came and Alec started drinking properly, she left. Couldn’t take it. He begged for half a year, swore he’d quit. And he did—for nearly two years. But every stress sent him back to the bottle; he knew no other way.
One night, after a particularly vicious row—when Alec smashed a vase (not at her, but close enough)—she sat at the kitchen table and began writing to her sister:
*”Liz, I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving. I have to save myself.”*
She peeked into the nursery. Tommy was asleep, clutching a toy lorry—his dad’s gift. He adored his father. And the feeling was mutual.
Margaret tore up the letter. Thought: *If I go, he’ll rot. And my boy will watch his father crumble. Better he hates me than be ashamed of him.*
Somehow, Alec sensed it. Drank less. A second son, Jack, was born. For a few years, the family lived quietly, almost happily. But the binges returned. After one, he barged in, half-delirious, and she said:
“I don’t love you anymore. I can’t. Never again.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Quite sane. But we’ll stay together. For the children.”
Every night, she checked if the boys were asleep, placed a heavy book on the bedside table—just in case—and whispered, *”One more day. Not for me. For them.”*
Change came slowly. Years passed. The boys grew. Alec mellowed, settled, barely touched a drop. The country frayed, shops stood empty. They moved to Manchester, Jack just starting school.
The haulage firm where he worked shut down. Desperate, Alec brought home a bottle and set it on the table.
“No,” Margaret said firmly. “This or the kids.”
“Piss off.”
“I won’t.” She grabbed the bottle and poured it down the sink.
He raised his hand but didn’t strike. Knew: if he did, he’d lose everything. She wouldn’t bend.
In ’95, they got a plot to build on. No money—borrowed from her parents.
“We’ll do it ourselves,” he said suddenly.
She didn’t believe him. But every weekend, they went to the site: he mixed cement, she lugged bricks. Once, she stumbled and split her knee wide open. He rushed over.
“Stupid cow, why’d you go clambering?!”
But his voice was raw with fear—real, alive.
They built the house. Not all at once. But they built it. When the roof went on, he brought cheap fizz. They sat on the beams, drinking from plastic cups.
“Nice, innit?”
“Can’t believe it,” she said.
He stayed sober. But love didn’t return.
“Mum, why d’you stay with him?” grown-up Tommy asked once. “You’re strangers.”
“I promised—for better or worse. And you needed a father. Even him. You’ll understand when you have kids.”
Now they’re both past seventy.
Alec putters with the grandkids, and Margaret thinks: *If I’d left, he’d have drunk himself to death. These children wouldn’t exist. So it wasn’t for nothing.*
They live in the house they built. Separate rooms, separate TVs. She listens to Vaughan Williams, he watches *Judge Rinder*. Only the news they share. A truce.
The kids call daily. Grandchildren grin from framed photos. Recently, five-year-old Lily climbed onto her lap and asked:
“What’s love?”
Outside, in the yard, Grandad chopped wood—steady, methodical, like everything he’s done these twenty years.
“It’s forgiving someone for what you’d never forgive anyone else.”
“Like you forgive Grandad?”
She wasn’t prepared. The girl’s eyes held the same depth Tommy’s once had.
“I didn’t forgive. I just chose, every day, what mattered more.”
“What mattered?”
The door creaked. Alec walked in.
“You, love. Your dad. Your uncle. This house. Even Grandad’s rubbish telly…”
Lily giggled: “So that’s love?”
“No, pet. That’s patience. Love… well, it comes different ways. You’ll know the real thing someday.”
Alec poked his head round the kitchen door:
“Cuppa, Margie?”
“Kettle’s on,” she replied.
Not love. But something stronger. Was it worth it?
No answer. Or maybe you know.
