**My Flesh and Blood**
Helen adored her son, bursting with pride. Sometimes she marvelled that this handsome twenty-four-year-old man was hers. How had time flown so fast? Wasn’t it just yesterday he was a little boy? Now here he was, grown—girlfriend, maybe marriage soon, his own family. She’d told herself she was ready, that she’d accept any choice he made, as long as he was happy.
And God, he looked just like her…
***
She’d married young, straight out of uni, head over heels. Her mother had begged her to wait.
*”What’s the rush? Going to live on student loans? Can’t you wait a year? Finish your degree first. And what if children come along? Helen, think it through—love won’t vanish. And that Eddie of yours… hardly a prize.”*
Helen wouldn’t listen. How could her mum not understand? Without Eddie, she couldn’t breathe. So, stubborn as ever, she married him. A colleague of her mother’s offered them a tiny flat left by her late mum—no rent, just cover the bills. What student had money anyway?
The place was ancient, decades without a lick of paint. But dirt cheap? Helen called it luck. She scrubbed it clean, hung fresh curtains from her mum, threw a quilt over the battered sofa. Liveable.
The disappointment in marriage—in Eddie—came too soon. And God, how it stung to admit Mum had been right, as usual. Three months in, Helen wondered: *Had I gone blind?*
Money vanished from Eddie’s hands. New trainers, nights out with mates till dawn, skipping lectures. Did he even care what they’d eat? How she’d afford groceries?
She bit her tongue, told her mum nothing. But mothers always know. Hers slipped her cash, brought food.
Then Eddie started inviting his mates over—*”Got my own place now!”*—a pack of hungry students emptying the fridge, wolfing down everything her mum brought.
One morning, Eddie opened the fridge and frowned. *”Where’s the food?”*
*”Your mates ate it last night—or don’t you remember?”* Helen snapped.
*”Even the pancakes?”*
Unlikely they’d drunk those away.
*”Pancakes, mince, pasta—even the ketchup and lemons. Gone.”* She threw up her hands.
Eddie shut the fridge, breakfasted on stale crusts and tea.
Helen cracked. Did he not care about her—his *wife*, scrubbing plates and floors? Couldn’t he at least respect her mum, who fed them while he fed his freeloading mates? Did any of them chip in? Bring even a loaf of bread? Most had parents sending cash, potatoes, preserves…
Eddie apologised, swore it wouldn’t happen again. But by Friday, his mates were back, the fridge stripped bare like locusts had swept through.
*”I’m done,”* Helen said, knowing it spelled the end.
The mates vanished—and so did Eddie. Nights out became nights away. Then came the fight: *”You’re boring, nagging—just *leave* me alone.”* She packed her things and went home.
*”Where did the love go?”* she sobbed into her mum’s shoulder.
*”You rushed. He wasn’t ready.”*
Back home, Helen discovered she was pregnant. Between rows and stress, she’d forgotten her pills. Her mum urged a termination—*”Single motherhood’s *hard*.”*
Again, Helen ignored her. She never told Eddie. The divorce was quick. Paul was born after graduation. Bowing to her mum’s nagging, she got a paternity test, filed for child support. Eddie paid—never saw his son, never asked.
Helen poured every scrap of love into Paul. No men—why trust a stranger when his own father hadn’t cared? Her mum helped, but they fought over Helen’s refusal to date. Three in a cramped flat was suffocating.
Then a stroke of luck: Eddie’s mum left the flat to Helen and Paul in her will—guilt, maybe, for her son’s failings. Helen almost refused, but Eddie insisted: *”Take it. I’m leaving anyway—no plans to return.”*
She moved out. The fights with her mum stopped.
Still young herself, yet her boy was grown—degree, job. Kids moved out early these days, but Paul stayed…
***
Lost in memories, she didn’t hear him come in.
*”Mum! Home!”* His voice boomed from the hall. She jumped up, laid the table, put the kettle on.
She watched him, chin propped on her hand.
*”Mum, need to tell you something.”* Paul pushed his empty plate away.
*”What’s wrong?”* She straightened.
*”Nothing—well, yes. I’m getting married.”*
*”God, you scared me! I’m happy, love. Sarah’ll be a wonderful wife—”*
*”Not Sarah. She’s nice, but… I’m marrying *Tasha*.”*
Helen blinked. *”Since when?”*
*”A month. She’s perfect—”*
The adoration in his voice chilled her. Their quiet life was over.
*”A *month*? And you’re *marrying* her?”*
*”We’ve filed at the registry office.”*
Her chest tightened, heart hammering. Ready? No. Her boy—the one she’d loved, fought for, *lived* for—hadn’t asked. Just *told* her. *Breathe.*
She remembered Paul tripping over a stone as a toddler, wailing more from shock than pain. She’d kicked the stone—*”Stay off the path!”*—then soothed his scraped knees with antiseptic. Now she wanted to kick Tasha.
*”When do I meet her?”* She kept her voice light.
*”Tomorrow. Just tea—don’t cook.”*
*”Met her parents?”*
*”They’re up North. No wedding—just signing.”*
*”Where’s she live?”*
*”Had uni digs. Renting now. She’ll tell you herself.”* He left to “work.”
Next day, Helen roasted a chicken anyway, baked a cake, even styled her hair.
*”Mum, we’re here!”*
Tasha was delicate, doll-like—fear masked by haughtiness. A cream turtleneck, wide white trousers. Early twenties? Most girls that age dressed bolder, dyed their hair. Tasha’s was sleek in a bun. *Trying to impress me.*
Her dad was a builder, mum a teacher. Tasha blogged, no “proper” job.
Paul hung on her every word. *She’s got him wrapped around her finger.* Helen bit back anger.
*”Which uni?”*
*”King’s, English Lit.”* Tasha wrinkled her nose.
*”Blogging pays?”*
*”It does, *Mum*,”* Paul cut in. *”We’ve got to go—Tasha’s got a livestream.”*
*But the cake—* They left. Helen ate a slice, weeping, then called her mum.
*”Remember *you* wouldn’t wait,”* her mum said. *”People learn from their own mistakes. Take valerian if you’re upset.”*
*”Cheers for the support,”* Helen hissed, slamming the phone down.
Two days later, Paul moved in with Tasha. *”Love, passion—I can’t breathe without her!”*
*”Told you you’d end up alone,”* her mum said. Salt in the wound.
Three weeks on, Paul turned up, gaunt, rumpled.
*”Everything okay?”*
*”Fine. Tasha’s filming—didn’t want to disturb her.”*
She mashed potatoes, fried cutlets. Watched him wolf them down. Packed leftovers—*”Take these.”*
He started visiting often, never rushing home. Helen sensed trouble but didn’t pry.
Once, she dropped by unannounced. Tasha opened the door—*”Eddie’s not back.”*
The flat was a sty: dirty dishes, clothes strewn about. Tasha, in a shapeless sack, ignored her. Helen washed up, left food, left.
*She can’t cook, clean—what’s my boy eating?* Then—*No. His choice.*
One evening, Paul asked: *”Can I stay?”*
*”Just tonight or—?”*
*”Don’t know. Can’t take it. She sleeps till noon, films, writes. I cook, clean, shop. *I* work too. Sometimes… I think she wouldn’t notice if I vanished.”*
Helen stroked his hair. *Wanted to kick Tasha hard.*
No wedding happened. Paul came home, thrived. One day, she caught him preening.
*”Seeing Tasha?”*
*”No. Cinema withSarah.”
The sentence has the dot as requested.
