Helen adored her son and was incredibly proud of him. Sometimes she’d catch herself marvelling at the fact this handsome, twenty-four-year-old man was really her own boy. Where had the time gone? It felt like just yesterday he was a little lad, and now here he was, grown up, with a girlfriend—maybe even about to get married and start his own family. She thought she was ready for it, that she’d accept whatever choice he made as long as he was happy.
And how much he looked like her…
***
She’d married young, right out of uni, head over heels in love. Her mum had tried to talk her out of it.
*”What’s the rush? Planning to live off your student loans? Can’t you wait a year? Finish your degree first. And what if you have kids? Helen, think it through—love isn’t going anywhere. And that Mark of yours… well, he’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”*
Helen wouldn’t listen, just got irritated. How could her mum not understand that life without him was unbearable? Of course, Helen got her way. They married. A colleague of her mum’s offered them a tiny flat that had belonged to her late mother. She wouldn’t charge them rent, just the bills. What student had money?
The place was a dump, decades without so much as a lick of paint. But it was practically free. Helen counted it as luck. She scrubbed it from top to bottom, hung the clean curtains her mum had given her, and covered the worn-out sofa with her own throw. It was liveable.
But disappointment in married life—and in her husband—came far too quickly. And how hard it was to admit that her mum had, once again, been right. Three months in, Helen couldn’t believe how blind she’d been about Mark. Had she been completely daft?
Money never stayed in his hands. The second he got any, he’d blow it on clothes or new trainers. He’d go out with mates till all hours, then sleep through lectures. Did it not cross his mind that they had to eat? That groceries cost money?
Helen endured it, never complaining to her mum. But her mum noticed anyway—helped where she could, slipping her cash, bringing food.
Lately, Mark had started inviting his friends over more often. *He* had a flat now! A pack of hungry students would raid the fridge, devouring everything her mum had brought.
One morning, Mark opened the fridge and frowned.
*”Where’s all the food?”*
*”Your mates ate it last night—remember?”* Helen snapped.
*”Even the pancakes?”*
Unlikely they’d gone with vodka.
*”The pancakes, the sausages, the pasta—even the ketchup and lemons. Everything.”* She threw her hands up.
Mark closed the fridge. Breakfast was tea and a stale crust of bread left in the bread bin.
Helen lost it—told him exactly what she thought. If he couldn’t care less about her, his wife, scrubbing dishes and floors, he could at least respect her mum. She bought them food, brought home-cooked meals, and he fed it all to his mates. Had any of them chipped in? Brought so much as a loaf of bread? Most of them got money sent from home, potatoes, pickles…
Mark apologised, swore it wouldn’t happen again. But a week later, Friday rolled around, and his mates crashed in, emptying the fridge like a swarm of locusts.
*”I’ve had enough,”* Helen said, realising she was ending her marriage.
No more friends came round. But now Mark vanished with them. Then, increasingly, he didn’t come home at all. After yet another row—him calling her boring, nagging—she packed her things and went back to her mum.
*”How did it all go so wrong? Where did the love go?”* she sobbed into her mum’s shoulder.
*”You just rushed it, love. He wasn’t ready,”* her mum murmured, stroking her hair.
Back home, Helen found out she was pregnant. Between the rows and stress, she’d forgotten her pills. Her mum urged her to have an abortion while it was early, said raising a child alone was hard.
But Helen didn’t listen this time, either. She didn’t tell Mark. The divorce was quick. She had little Paul after finishing uni. After endless prodding, she did a DNA test—so Mark couldn’t argue—and filed for child support. He never refused, paid on time, though he never saw Paul or asked about him.
Helen adored her son, poured all her love into him. The thought of another man? Forget it. If his own father didn’t want him, why would a stranger? Her mum helped, but they argued more—about Helen refusing to move on. The three of them were crammed together.
Then luck struck. Before she died, Mark’s mum left the flat to Helen and her grandson. Guilt over her son, maybe. Helen wanted to refuse, but Mark insisted. Said he was leaving anyway, didn’t know when he’d be back.
Helen moved out, and the arguments stopped.
She was still young, but her lad was grown—degree, job. Kids moved out early these days, but Paul wasn’t in a hurry…
***
So lost in memories, she didn’t hear Paul come home.
*”Mum! I’m back,”* he called from the hall. She jumped up, set the table, put the kettle on.
Then she sat, chin resting on her hand, watching him.
*”Mum, need to tell you something,”* Paul said, pushing his empty plate away.
*”What’s happened?”* She straightened.
*”Well—yeah. I’m getting married.”*
*”Goodness, don’t scare me like that! I’m happy for you—Sophie’ll make a lovely wife—”*
*”It’s not Sophie. She’s great, but I don’t love her.”*
*”What? But I thought—”*
*”We split up. I’m marrying Naomi. She’s amazing—”*
Helen listened, watching his face light up, and knew their quiet life was over.
*”How long have you been seeing her? You never mentioned her.”*
*”A month.”*
*”And after a month, you’re marrying her? You barely know her!”*
*”I love her. Everyone does. We’ve already put in the notice.”*
That finished her. Panic rose—her heart dropped, then raced, choking her. And she’d thought she was ready. Her boy, her baby, whom she’d loved, raised, lost sleep over, would’ve torn the world apart for—hadn’t asked, hadn’t consulted, just dropped it on her. *Breathe,* she told herself, gulping air.
A memory flashed—Paul tripping over a stone as a toddler, skinned knees, wailing more from shock than pain. She’d soothed him, then kicked the stone hard.
*”Take that! Lying in the road—made my boy cry.”*
At home, she’d cleaned his knees, dabbed antiseptic, blew softly. It felt like yesterday. Now he was getting married. And she wanted to kick Naomi like that stone.
*”When do I meet her?”* she asked, steadying her voice.
*”Tomorrow. Don’t cook—just tea, yeah?”*
*”Have you met her parents?”*
*”They’re up in Scotland. We’re just signing the papers—no fuss.”*
*”Where’s she live?”*
*”Was in uni digs. Now she rents. Mum, she’ll tell you everything. You’ll love her.”*
He vanished into his room. Helen washed up, telling herself it could be worse.
Next day, she roasted a chicken, made salad, bought cake, cleaned, even did her hair. Paul fetched Naomi.
*”Mum, we’re here!”*
Naomi was tiny, doll-faced, hiding nerves behind coolness. She wore a cream turtleneck, loose white trousers. Twenty-two, max. Girls that age dressed bolder, dyed hair pink—but Naomi’s was sleek in a bun. *”Dressed to impress me,”* Helen thought, ushering them in.
Naomi’s dad was a builder, mum a teacher. Nice, ordinary. She blogged, no proper job.
Paul hung on her every word. Helen saw it—Naomi knew her power, played it well. Paul was wrapped round her finger. It stung—her son, broken for this girl. But she bit it back. Just jealousy. It’d be fine.
*”Which uni did you go to?”*
*”Leeds, English lit,”* Naomi said, barely hiding a wince.
*”Nice. Does blogging pay?”*
*”It does. Mum, we’ve got to go—Naomi’s got a live stream,”* Paul cut in.
What? No tea? No cake?
*”Told you not to cook,”* heHelen watched them leave, then sat alone, piecing together the fragments of her heart, realising that love—whether for a child or a memory—was never truly about holding on, but learning when to let go.
