**Diary Entry**
“What do you even need it for?”
“You’re calling *me* heartless? Me? You forgot about contraception, then all common decency, and now you drag a pregnant woman into my home and demand a bigger room? How does that sit with you, eh, son?”
Lorraine spoke bluntly, but truthfully. She wasn’t attacking—no, she was defending what was hers.
Victor, meanwhile, paced the room like a man scouting for weaknesses, plotting his next move. His posture screamed defiance; guilt was the last thing on his mind.
…It all started years ago. The day Lorraine and William—God rest his soul—moved into their first flat. No bed, just blow-up mattresses. Over time, they saved for a second flat for their son. Later came the countryside cottage—big enough for two families, with dreams of grandchildren someday playing on the veranda.
But William passed when Victor had just started university. He left Lorraine everything: the fruits of their labour, happy memories, and their son—her last source of warmth and joy.
Victor graduated, moved out, married. Lorraine got a grandson. She was content. Then, a year later, Victor announced his divorce.
“We just didn’t get on. Can’t live with her,” he said, as if discussing a stray dog. “We agreed—since I’m the father, I gave her the flat. In return, she won’t demand child support.”
Lorraine clutched her head.
“Bloody knight in shining armour, aren’t you? That flat wasn’t even yours to give,” she snapped.
Even then, she suspected *she’d* pay for his grand gesture. She wasn’t wrong.
Soon, he was back—with a new wife. And she was already expecting.
They asked to stay “temporarily.” Lorraine agreed. At first.
She tried to be welcoming. Cooked meals, changed towels, hung their laundry. Even left extra portions on the stove—just in case Julia fancied a bite.
But gratitude never came.
Julia didn’t work, claiming pregnancy made it impossible. Lorraine bit her tongue, though privately she seethed.
“I’d have worked till seven months in her shoes,” she vented to her friend Margaret. “No home, Victor’s wages barely cover rent. She knew what she was signing up for. Now she’s just lazy.”
“Go easy on her, love. She’s pregnant,” Margaret soothed.
“Pregnant, my foot. I’ve been there. You think before making babies. She’s not even ill—just settled in nicely. And who’ll they come crying to when they can’t afford a pram?”
“Give it time. Once the baby’s in nursery, she’ll work—”
“Nursery? They said *two months*,” Lorraine muttered, half to convince herself.
Cleaning became a battle. Dust coated Victor’s room. Dishes piled up—unwashed teacups turned black with stains.
Lorraine endured. She always observed before acting.
Victor, meanwhile, vanished into his own world. Work kept him out late; at home, he’d scroll his phone or absently rub Julia’s belly before disappearing to smoke on the bench outside. Long, idle chats with neighbours. Money wasn’t magically appearing.
“Mum, swap rooms with us? Ours won’t fit a crib,” he said one day, casual as asking for the salt.
Lorraine froze. In three seconds, memories flashed—her and William painting walls, picking curtains, him calling their home a “fortress.”
Now? Someone was tearing that fortress down, building their nest from the rubble.
“The baby’s not due for months. You’re here *temporarily*, right?”
He looked away. Julia turned her head. The truth was clear: they’d moved in for good.
Victor pressed a few more times. Lorraine held firm.
The next blow came a week later. Over breakfast, he tossed out:
“Why not sell the cottage? It’d cover a deposit.”
Thank God Lorraine was sitting. This wasn’t a request—it was a demand.
“Victor, your father and I *broke our backs* for that place. He poured his soul into it. And I’m not selling it just because you can’t handle what you’ve got.”
“But what’s the point? You’re alone now. We’d get a mortgage, live separately—easier for everyone.”
Lorraine stared. The cruelty of it—dredging up William’s absence—stung. She still cried for him some nights.
“I just meant… you can’t manage it alone,” he mumbled.
Silence. Suddenly, she saw it: they’d drain her dry. Hand over the room, the cottage, the flat—then what? Victor would keep giving away what others had built. And she’d be left with nothing.
No. This ended now.
“You’ve got three days to leave,” she said, voice like ice. “Take your pregnancy, your crib, and your mortgage *elsewhere*. I’m done.”
The silence lasted a month. No calls, no texts.
She slept better. No more slamming cupboards, no complaints from Julia about “lost” belongings left strewn about.
But mornings grew heavier. The kitchen stayed empty. Milk soured untouched. No need to cook dinners. The TV gathered dust.
Every Friday, she drove to the cottage. Snow still lingered, but the sun warmed the earth. That first step inside—the scent of wood and dust—sent her heart leaping. William’s voice seemed to hang in the air:
*”We’ll grow old here, love. Maybe with grandkids underfoot.”*
She sat for hours on the veranda, remembering their debates—painting the shutters, keeping the apple tree. He’d insisted it stay.
Now, that tree might be the only thing left to bear fruit.
She ran into Tamara, a neighbour.
“Saw your lot recently. Victor’s labouring on a build. Living with Julia’s mate now. Bump’s showing.”
Lorraine nodded, said nothing. She wouldn’t pry. *”Their business…”* The thought made her scoff. When had her son become a stranger?
That night, she flipped through an old album. Victor on William’s shoulders, paint-smudged and laughing. His graduation—ill-fitting suit, eyes full of hope.
He’d always wanted to be strong. She remembered him at five, shielding a puppy from boys with fireworks. Knees shaking, but he stood his ground. William arrived—how *good* her boy had been back then. How simple things were.
Her hand hovered over her phone. She wanted to text *I love you, I’m here*—but not to build his life *for* him. Not to be his bridge till retirement. She deleted the draft.
He had to do this himself. Or fail. His choice.
…Another month passed. Lorraine was peeling potatoes when the landline rang. The old, clunky one. Her chest tightened. Only folks from *her* generation used those—usually for bad news.
“Hello?” she ventured.
“Mrs. Lorraine? It’s Olivia. Julia’s friend’s mum. We’ve not met, but… Victor’s here. Had an accident. Don’t panic! Just a broken arm.”
Olivia’s tone was kind but weary. Clearly at her limit.
“Sorry to call, but he needs help. He’s not working, and Julia… well, she needs care too.”
An hour later, Lorraine was on a bus. A bag held chicken stew, orange juice—his favourite.
Olivia met her at the door—a tired woman in a dressing gown.
“He’s in the lounge. Julia’s there. Brace yourself.”
Victor looked wrecked. Gaunt, greasy hair, arm in a sling. Eyes that once sparkled now dull. Julia hugged herself in the corner.
“Hey,” he croaked.
Lorraine nodded, sat on the armchair. The clock’s ticking filled the silence.
“Didn’t have to come. I’ll manage,” he muttered, already defensive.
Stubborn. Same as ever.
“Managed brilliantly, I see,” she said. “I came for the *baby*. He didn’t choose a deadbeat dad.”
His jaw clenched. Probably blaming her already.
“Know what real cruelty is?” she continued. “It’s not refusing help. It’s doing *everything* for someone till they forget how to live. Then watching them drown.”
“Great. So what now?” he sneered.
“*Heal.* Work. Stop waiting for miracles.”
He looked away—ashamed, maybe. Not enlightenment, but a crack in his stubbornness.
Every instinct screamed *take him home*. But sense won. If she rescued him now, she’d never stop.
Instead, she pulled out her purse.
“Here’s rent for a month. A *loan*—for the *baby’s* sake. I want him to have a father with *hands*, not a beggar’s palm.”
Julia glanced up but stayed silent. Victor nodded. He knew better than to ask for moreShe walked out without looking back, the cottage door clicking shut behind her like the final page of a book she’d never read again.
