“What do you need all this for?”
“Are you calling *me* unfeeling? *Me?* You’re the one who forgot about savings, then decency, and now you drag a pregnant woman into my home and demand a bigger room! How do you like that, eh, son?”
Margaret spoke harshly, but truthfully. She wasn’t attacking—no, she was defending what was hers.
Edward paced the room like a man sizing up weak spots, waiting to strike. His expression made it clear: he felt no guilt.
…It had all begun years ago. The day Margaret and William—God rest his soul—moved into their first flat. Not even a proper bed, just air mattresses. Over time, they saved enough for a second flat, for their son. Later, they built a cottage. A two-family home, so one day grandchildren might run through the garden and across the veranda.
But William passed when Edward had only just started university. He left Margaret everything—the fruits of their labor, fond memories, and her last source of warmth and joy: their son.
Edward graduated, moved out, married. Margaret gained a grandson. She was happy. Then, a year later, her son announced his divorce.
“We just didn’t get on. Couldn’t live with her,” he said, as if discussing a stray pup. “We agreed—since I’m the father, I signed the flat over to her. In exchange, she won’t claim child support.”
Margaret clutched her head.
“Brilliant. A regular knight in shining armour. With empty pockets, no less. You didn’t even buy that flat,” she snapped.
Even then, she suspected this grand gesture would cost *her*. She wasn’t wrong.
Soon, Edward returned with a new wife—already expecting.
They asked to stay “just for a while.” Margaret didn’t refuse. At first.
She tried to be kind. Cooked meals, changed their towels, hung their laundry. Even left extra portions on the stove: “In case Emily fancies a bite.”
But gratitude never came.
Emily didn’t work, claiming her condition made it impossible. Margaret bit her tongue, though privately she disagreed.
“I’d have worked till seven months, at least,” she grumbled to her friend Beatrice. “No home, Edward’s wages tight—she knew what she was marrying. She should’ve *thought* before starting a family.”
“Be patient, Meg. She’s young, pregnant…”
“Young and clueless. I’ve been there—it’s no excuse. She’s not ill, not even morning sickness. Just settled in nicely. Who d’you think they’ll come running to when they can’t afford a pram?”
“Give it time. Once the baby’s in nursery, she’ll work…”
“Nursery? They said a *few months*.”
Cleaning became a battle. Dust coated Edward’s room. Dishes piled up—tea mugs left to blacken with stains.
Margaret endured. She watched first, acted later.
Edward, meanwhile, vanished into his own world—working late, scrolling through his phone, idly rubbing Emily’s belly before slipping outside to smoke with the neighbours. Money wasn’t magically appearing.
“Mum, let’s swap rooms. Ours won’t fit a crib,” he said one day, casual as asking for the salt.
Margaret froze. Three seconds flashed by: William painting the walls, choosing curtains, calling their home a “fortress.”
Now someone was tearing it down, building a nest from the wreckage.
“The baby’s four months off. You’re here *temporarily*, yes?”
Edward looked away. Emily turned her head. The truth was clear: they’d moved in for good.
He tried again. Margaret held firm.
A week later, over breakfast:
“Why don’t we sell the cottage? Cover a deposit.”
Thank God she was sitting. This wasn’t a request—it was a demand.
“Ed, your father and I *built* that place. He poured his soul into it. I won’t sell it because you can’t manage what you’re given.”
“What use is it to you? You’re alone. We’d get a mortgage, live separately—easier for everyone.”
Margaret stared. The blow struck deep. She still felt William’s absence, still cried some nights.
“I meant… You can’t keep it up alone.”
Silence fell. Margaret understood: they’d bleed her dry. What then? When she’d surrendered her room, her cottage, her flat?
Nothing good. Edward would keep giving away what others had earned. She’d be left with patience.
No. This ended now.
“You’ve three days to leave,” she said, voice icy. “Take your pregnancy, crib, and mortgage elsewhere. I’ve had enough.”
The silence lasted a month. Not a word from them.
She slept better. No morning stomping, no cupboard slamming, no Emily wailing about lost jumpers.
But mornings grew harder.
The kitchen stayed empty. Milk soured untouched. No need to cook supper. The telly gathered dust.
Fridays, Margaret visited the cottage. Snow lingered, but sunlight warmed the earth. Stepping inside, her heart leapt at the scent of wood and dust—and William’s voice in the air:
“We’ll grow old here, Meg. Maybe with grandchildren someday.”
She sat on the veranda bench for hours, remembering their debates: Shutters painted blue or green? That old apple tree—chop it down? William had insisted it stay.
Now, perhaps, it was the only thing left that would bear fruit.
On the way home, she ran into Dorothy, a neighbour.
“Saw your Edward lately. Working odd jobs. Staying with Emily’s friend. She’s showing now.”
Margaret nodded, glanced skyward, said nothing. She’d no interest in gossip. *Their* family? When had her son become a stranger?
That evening, she fetched an old album. A photo of Edward on William’s shoulders, paint-smeared and grinning. Then graduation: suit too big, face solemn, eyes full of hope.
He’d always wanted to be strong. She remembered him at five, shielding a puppy from boys with firecrackers—knees shaking, but he stood firm. William had arrived just in time. Her boy had been so *good* then. So simple.
Her hand hovered over her phone. She almost texted: *I love you. I want to be in your life—not build it for you.* But she deleted it.
He had to do this himself. Or fail. His choice.
…Another month passed. Margaret peeled potatoes when the landline rang—the heavy old one. Her chest tightened. Only folk of her generation used these. They called with crises—or last goodbyes.
“Hello?” she ventured.
“Margaret? It’s—Olive. Emily’s friend’s mother. We’ve not met, but… your son’s here. Had an accident. Don’t fret! Just a broken arm.”
The voice was kind but weary. Resentment simmered beneath.
“Sorry to call, but he needs help. No work, and Emily… well, she needs tending too.”
An hour later, Margaret boarded a bus. In her bag: chicken thighs, orange juice—his favourite.
Olive met her at the door—plump, tired, in a dressing gown.
“He’s in the parlour. Emily’s there. Don’t be shocked—he’s poorly.”
Edward looked wrecked. Gaunt, greasy-haired, arm in plaster. His eyes—once bright—now dull as fogged lanterns. Emily hunched on a stool, arms wrapped around herself.
“Hey,” he croaked.
Margaret nodded, perched on a chair. Silence. Just the clock’s ticking—counting how long she’d last.
“Didn’t have to come. I’ll manage,” he muttered, already bracing for battle.
Stubborn. As ever.
“Manage? A fine job you’re doing,” she said. “I came for the baby. He’s not to blame for his father’s failures.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. No doubt he seethed inside.
“Know what true cruelty is?” she continued. “Not refusing help. It’s doing *everything* for someone till they forget how to stand. Then they drag you under.”
“Fine. What now?” he scoffed.
“Heal. Work. Live. Stop waiting for miracles.”
He turned away, shamefaced. She hoped it sank in—not fully, but enough to crack his stubbornness.
Her instincts screamed: *Take him home. Fix it.* But sense said otherwise. Help now, and she’d carry him forever.
No. This was better. She pulled out her purse, counted notes.
“First month’s rent. A *loan*—for the baby’s sake. I want him to have a father with working hands, not a begging bowl.”
Emily glanced up but stayed silent. Edward nodded. He knew better than to ask for more.
Margaret stood.
“Get well. I’m off.”
Home barely held her. By duskShe returned to her cottage, where the old apple tree stood—its branches bare now, but with the quiet promise of blossoms to come.
