“Why on earth would you need this all to yourself?”
“You’re calling me heartless? Me? First, you forget about common decency, then all sense of propriety, and now you drag a pregnant woman into my home and demand a bigger room? How does that sound to you, son?”
Lorraine spoke harshly, but truthfully. She wasn’t attacking—no, she was defending what was hers.
Victor, meanwhile, paced the room as if scouting for some unseen advantage, calculating weaknesses. It was plain he didn’t think himself in the wrong.
…It had all started long ago. From the day Lorraine and William—God rest his soul—moved into their first flat, with nothing but blow-up mattresses. Over time, they scraped together enough for a second flat, for their son. Then they built a country cottage—big enough for two families, so that one day the veranda and garden might echo with grandchildren’s laughter.
But William passed when Victor had only just begun university. He left Lorraine everything—the fruits of their hard work, their happy memories, and her last source of warmth and joy: their son.
Victor earned his degree, moved out, married. Lorraine became a grandmother. She was happy. Then, a year later, Victor announced a divorce.
“We just didn’t get along. I couldn’t live with her,” he said, as though discussing a stray pup. “We made an agreement—since I’m the father, I gave her the flat. In return, she promised not to claim child support.”
Lorraine clutched her head.
“Bravo. A proper knight in shining armour. You didn’t even buy that flat,” she snapped.
Even then, she suspected she’d be the one paying for this grand gesture. And she wasn’t wrong.
Soon, her son returned, this time with a new wife—and she was already expecting.
They asked to stay with her temporarily. At first, Lorraine didn’t mind.
She tried to be gracious. Cooked meals, changed the towels herself, hung their laundry to dry. Even left extra portions on the stove—just in case Julie fancied a bite.
But it quickly became clear gratitude was in short supply.
Julie didn’t work, insisting her condition made it impossible. Lorraine bit her tongue, though privately she disagreed.
“I’d have worked till at least seven months in her place,” she complained to her friend Margaret. “No home of their own, Victor’s wages barely enough. She must’ve known what she was getting into. But no—she lounges about.”
“Be patient, love. She’s just a girl carrying a child,” Margaret soothed.
“Girl my foot. I’ve been there. You think before bringing a baby into the world. She’s not ill—not even morning sickness. Just settled in nicely. And when they can’t afford a pram, who’ll they run to?”
“Wait it out. Once the little one’s in nursery, she’ll find work…”
“Nursery? They said they’d stay a few months,” Lorraine muttered, trying to convince herself.
Cleaning became a slog. Dust settled in Victor’s room like a second skin. Dishes piled up—cups left to stain with tea rings, untouched for days.
Lorraine endured. She always watched first, acted later.
Victor, meanwhile, seemed lost in some other world. He vanished till late, then scrolled mindlessly or absently patted Julie’s belly before slipping out for a smoke on the bench outside. Long drags, idle chatter with neighbours.
Money wasn’t magically appearing.
“Mum, let’s swap rooms. Ours can’t even fit a crib,” he said one day, casual as asking for the salt.
Lorraine was stunned. In three seconds, memories flashed—her and William painting walls, picking curtains, him calling their home a fortress.
Now someone was tearing it down, shamelessly building a nest from the wreckage.
“The baby’s not due for months. You’re here temporarily, aren’t you?”
He looked away. Julie twisted her fingers. The truth was plain—this wasn’t temporary. They’d already decided.
He tried again later. Lorraine held firm.
The next row came a week later. Over breakfast, Victor tossed out:
“Why not sell the cottage? It’d cover a deposit.”
Thank God Lorraine was sitting. This wasn’t a request anymore—it was a demand.
“Victor, your father and I slaved for that place. He poured his soul into it—drew up the plans himself. And I won’t sell it because you’ve no respect for what you’re given.”
“But what use is it to you? You’re alone now. We’d get a mortgage, live separately—easier for everyone.”
Lorraine’s eyes widened. The blow struck deep. She still felt William’s absence like a fresh wound, sometimes weeping at night.
“I just meant…” Victor faltered. “You can’t manage that place alone.”
Silence fell. Suddenly, Lorraine understood—they’d bleed her dry. And what then, when she’d surrendered her room, her cottage, her flat?
Nothing good. Victor would keep giving away what others had sweat for. She’d be left with nothing but patience.
No. This ended now.
“You have three days to leave,” she said, voice icy. “Wherever you like. Take your pregnancy, your crib, and your mortgage with you. Enough.”
The quiet afterwards was deafening. A month passed without so much as a text.
She slept better. No more slamming cupboards, no complaints from Julie about misplaced belongings.
But waking grew harder.
The kitchen stood too empty. Milk soured from disuse. No need to cook supper. The telly gathered dust.
Every Friday, Lorraine visited the cottage. Snow still lingered, but the sun warmed the earth. Stepping inside, her heart leapt at the scent of wood and dust—and William’s voice, hanging in the air.
“We’ll live here one day, love. Maybe with the grandchildren.”
She sat for hours on the veranda bench, remembering their plans to paint the shutters, their debates over the apple tree—he’d insisted they keep it.
Now, perhaps, that tree was the only thing left that would bear fruit.
There, she ran into Tamara, a neighbour.
“Saw your lot recently. Victor’s taken work on a building site. Staying with Julie’s friend. Big belly on her now.”
Lorraine nodded, gazed skyward, said nothing. She’d no interest in prying. “Their lot…” The thought made her scoff. When had her son become a stranger?
That evening, she dug out an old album. A photo of Victor on William’s shoulders, covered in paint, grinning. Then his graduation—ill-fitting suit, solemn face, eyes bright with hope.
He’d always wanted to be strong. She recalled him at five, shielding a puppy from lads with fireworks. Knees shaking, but he stood his ground. Then William arrived. Her boy had been so good then. So simple.
Her fingers hovered over her phone. She longed to text him—say she loved him, wanted to be part of his life—but not build it for him. Not lay a bridge he’d cross till retirement.
She deleted the words.
He had to do this himself. Or fail. That was his path.
…Another month passed. Lorraine was peeling potatoes when the landline rang—the old, clunky one. Her heart clenched. Only folk from another era used those, and they only called with troubles—or worse.
“Hello?” she ventured.
“Lorraine? It’s Olivia. Julie’s friend’s mum. You don’t know me, but… Victor’s had an accident. Don’t fret—just a broken arm.”
Olivia’s voice was kind but weary. Clearly, she wasn’t thrilled either.
“Sorry to call, but he needs help. No work, and Julie… well, she needs looking after too.”
An hour later, Lorraine was on a bus. In her bag: chicken thighs, buckwheat, orange juice—his favourite.
Olivia met her at the door—a worn woman in a dressing gown, shadows under her eyes.
“He’s in the parlour. Julie’s there. Don’t be startled—he’s not himself.”
Victor looked worse than ever. Thin, hollow-cheeked, hair greasy. Arm in plaster. Eyes that once shone now dim as failed bulbs. Julie hunched on a stool, arms wrapped around herself.
“Hi,” he rasped.
Lorraine nodded, perched on the armchair. Silence. Just the clock ticking—counting how long she’d last.
“Didn’t have to come. I’ll manage,” he muttered, already bracing for a blow.
Stubborn. Always.
“Clearly,” she said. “I came for the baby. He’s not to blame for his father’s failures.”
Victor’s jaw tightened. Probably seething inside.
“Know what’s truly cruel?” she continued. “Not refusing help. It’s doing everything for someone till they forget how to live. Then watching them drown—and drag others under.”
She turned and walked away, leaving only the quiet hum of the ticking clock and the faint scent of orange juice lingering in the air.
