**My Flesh and Blood**
Helen adored her son and was fiercely proud of him. Sometimes she caught herself staring in awe—how could this handsome, grown man of twenty-four be her own child? Where had the years flown? It felt like yesterday he was still small, and now here he was, independent, with a girlfriend, talking of marriage and starting a family of his own. She told herself she was ready for it—that she’d accept his choices, so long as he was happy.
And God, how much he looked like her…
***
She’d married young, straight out of university, swept away by love. Her mother had tried to warn her.
*“Why the rush? Planning to live off a student grant? Can’t you wait a year, at least? Finish your studies first. And what if you have a baby? Helen, think this through. Love won’t vanish if you take your time. Besides, your Robert—well, he’s a piece of work.”*
Helen hadn’t listened. She’d been irritated—how could her mother not understand? She couldn’t imagine life without him. Of course, she’d gone ahead with it. A colleague of her mum’s had offered them a tiny flat left behind by her late mother. No rent, just the bills—what student could afford more?
The place was old, untouched by renovation for decades, but it was a lifeline. Helen scrubbed it clean, hung the lace curtains her mother gave her, draped the threadbare sofa with her own knitted throw. It would do.
But the disappointment came too soon. And oh, how bitter it was to admit her mother had been right again. Within three months, Helen found herself wondering—had she been blind? How had she misjudged Robert so completely?
Money vanished the moment he got his hands on it—new trainers, nights out with mates, while she scraped together pennies for groceries. He slept through lectures, indifferent to how they’d eat. She suffered in silence, but her mother saw through it anyway, slipping her cash, bringing food.
Then Robert started inviting his friends over. *Finally,* he had his own place. A pack of hungry lads descended weekly, devouring everything—even the food her mother brought.
One morning, Robert opened the fridge and frowned. *“Where’s everything?”*
*“Your mates ate it all last night. Or don’t you remember?”* she snapped.
*“Even the scones?”* he asked, incredulous.
*“The scones, the pasta, the ketchup—everything.”* She flung her hands up.
He shut the fridge and breakfasted on stale bread crusts.
That was the last straw. She shouted herself hoarse—how could he disrespect her, his own wife, scrubbing dishes night after night? What about her mother, who kept them fed? Not one of his mates chipped in, not a loaf of bread between them.
Robert apologised, promised it wouldn’t happen again. But by Friday, the rabble was back, swarming like locusts.
*“I’m done,”* Helen said, knowing the words buried her marriage.
The visits stopped—but so did Robert. He vanished nightly, then stopped coming home at all. When he finally sneered that she was *“nagging and boring,”* she packed her bags and left.
*“Where did the love go?”* she sobbed into her mother’s shoulder.
*“You rushed. He wasn’t ready,”* her mother murmured, stroking her hair.
Back home, Helen discovered she was pregnant—too stressed to remember her pills. Her mother urged her to terminate. *“It’s hard raising a child alone.”*
But Helen refused. She never told Robert. The divorce was swift. Little Paul arrived after graduation. At her mother’s insistence, she demanded a paternity test, then filed for child support. Robert paid—but never once asked to see his son.
Helen poured every scrap of love into Paul. No men—ever. What stranger could love a child whose own father hadn’t? Her mother helped, but their cramped space bred arguments over Helen’s stubborn solitude.
Then, a stroke of luck: Robert’s mother willed the flat to Helen and Paul. Guilt, perhaps, for her son’s failings. Helen hesitated, but Robert himself insisted—he was leaving anyway.
The move ended the rows.
Now here she was, still young, with a grown son—degree, job, his own life. Most lads his age had moved out, but Paul stayed.
***
Lost in memories, she didn’t hear him come home.
*“Mum! I’m back,”* his deep voice called from the hall. She leapt up, setting the kettle on, laying the table.
She watched him eat, chin propped on her hand.
*“Mum, there’s something I need to say.”* Paul pushed his plate away.
*“What’s wrong?”* She straightened.
*“Nothing—well, yes. I’m getting married.”*
*“Goodness, you scared me! I’m happy for you, love. Sophie will be a wonderful wife—”*
*“Not Sophie.”* His voice was quiet. *“We split up. I’m marrying Annie. She’s—incredible.”*
Helen listened, stomach knotting as he gushed. This was it—the end of their quiet life.
*“How long have you been seeing her? You never mentioned her.”*
*“A month.”*
*“And you’re marrying her after a month?”* Her voice rose.
*“I love her. We’ve already submitted the notice.”*
The words knocked the breath from her. Panic clawed her throat. Her boy—her *baby*—hadn’t asked, hadn’t consulted her. *Breathe,* she ordered herself.
A memory surfaced: Paul, tiny, tripping over a rock outside nursery, wailing over skinned knees. She’d kicked the stone, furious. *“That’ll teach you.”* At home, she’d dabbed his cuts with antiseptic, blowing gently.
Now she wanted to kick Annie.
*“When do I meet her?”* she forced out.
*“Tomorrow. Don’t fuss—just tea, yeah?”*
*“Have you met her parents?”*
*“They’re up in Scotland. We’re keeping it simple—just the registry office.”*
*“Where does she live?”*
*“Student digs before. Now she rents. Mum, she’ll tell you everything herself.”* He stood. *“I’ve got work.”*
Alone, she washed dishes, telling herself it could be worse.
Next day, she roasted a chicken anyway, baked a cake, tidied flat. When they arrived, Annie was doll-like, trembling but haughty in a cream turtleneck and wide trousers. Too polished—*trying too hard,* Helen thought.
Annie’s father was a builder, her mum a teacher. She blogged for a living.
Paul hung on her every word.
Helen saw it—Annie *knew* her power. Her son was wrapped around her finger. It stung. She’d raised him, sacrificed for him, and now this girl would take him.
*“What degree did you do, Annie?”*
*“English Lit at Leeds.”* A slight frown.
*“And your blog pays well?”*
*“It does, Mum,”* Paul cut in. *“We’ve got to go—Annie’s got a livestream.”*
Gone. No tea, no cake. Helen ate a slice alone, tears salty on her lips.
Her mother’s call didn’t help.
*“Told you so. Live and learn—or lose him. Take some valerian.”*
*“Thanks for the sympathy,”* Helen hissed, slamming the phone down.
Two days later, Paul moved in with Annie.
Three weeks on, he turned up haggard.
*“Everything alright?”* she asked.
*“Fine. Annie’s filming—didn’t want to intrude.”*
She fed him mashed potatoes, fried cutlets, packed leftovers.
He visited often after that, never rushing home. She sensed trouble but didn’t pry.
One day, she dropped by unannounced. Annie answered, unkempt in a baggy jumper. The flat was a sty—dirty dishes, clutter. Not even a cuppa offered.
Helen washed up, left groceries, seething. Her boy deserved better.
Then, one evening:
*“Mum… can I stay?”*
*“Of course.”*
*“I can’t do this anymore. She sleeps till noon, films, writes. I cook, clean, shop. I’m invisible.”*
She stroked his hair. *“Oh, love.”*
The wedding never happened. Paul came home, brightened, filled out.
One day, she caught him preening.
*“Off to Annie’s?”*
*“No. Cinema with Sophie.”*
*“Good. She suits you.”*
*“Thanks,”* he said suddenly.
*“For what?”*
*“Not gloating. Not prying.”Helen smiled as she watched Paul and Sophie push their daughter’s pram through the park, the same way her mother once watched her, knowing that love, in the end, always finds its way.
