Margaret woke up late. There was no rush—she’d been retired for seven years, with no one left to care for. A lie-in now and then wasn’t a crime. Yet something unsettled her, a nagging unease she couldn’t pin down. Everything was fine, wasn’t it? No reason to fret. And yet.
She got up, tidied herself, put the kettle on, and peered out the window. The sky over the house across the street was painted crimson—the low winter sun would soon rise. That meant frost had finally settled in after two weeks of thaw. “Good,” she thought. “I’ll have my tea and pop to the shops.” She lifted the whistling kettle off the hob.
Pouring the tea, she took small sips, warmth spreading through her. Petite and frail, she’d never gained weight, not even after having her only son. Her husband had been a big man. He used to call her “Maggie-love,” or “Little Meg.” But he’d been gone ten years now.
She raised her cup—then the sharp buzz of the doorbell startled her. Tea sloshed over the rim, scalding her thin, spotted hand. She barely kept hold of the cup. “There’s the trouble. Knew something was coming. What next?” Before she could dwell, the bell rang again—long and insistent.
Margaret blew on her hand and shuffled to the door, muttering, “Who on earth turns up this early?” It took her a moment to recognise the dishevelled man in rumpled clothes as her son. “Good Lord,” she gasped. Edward, too, seemed thrown by how much she’d aged.
“Got a visitor, Mum,” he said, forcing a grin as if shaking himself awake.
“Edward? You might’ve warned me. I wasn’t expecting you.” She pressed her face to his chest. He awkwardly patted her back with one hand.
She caught the scent of travel, stale clothes, and something else that twisted her heart. Pulling away, she studied him—the unkempt stubble on his puffy face, the dark bags under bloodshot eyes.
“You alone? Where’s Lucy, the little one?”
“Not happy to see just me?” He avoided her gaze, staring past her head.
“Course I am, just surprised.” She stepped back to let him in. “Come on, get your coat off, love.”
Edward crossed the threshold, dropped a bulky sports bag by the door, and scanned the hallway.
“Home. Nothing’s changed.”
“You on holiday? Middle of winter?” Her eyes flicked to the bag.
“Later, Mum. Knackered.” He hung his jacket on the peg.
“Right, of course. Tea’s still hot.” She hurried to the kitchen, fetching his old mug from the cupboard.
Edward followed, slouching at the table, legs spread wide, filling the small, tidy space. She set the mug down.
“Hungry? I’ve got stew. Made it yesterday—felt like you might come.” She paused, waiting.
“Go on, then.” He shrugged. “Missed your cooking.” A flicker of a smile.
She fussed with the fridge, reheating the stew, then set a steaming bowl before him with a heavy spoon—his father’s favourite—and a thick slice of bread. She sat opposite, chin propped on her hand.
“Got anything stronger to go with this?” He shot her a glance, stirring the stew.
“Don’t keep it,” she said stiffly.
She watched him eat noisily, eyes half-closed like a cat soaking up sun.
“How’s Lucy? What year’s she in now? Why didn’t they come with you?”
Edward kept eating, ignoring her.
She didn’t need words. She knew—he’d been drinking. His wife had kicked him out. Where else would he go but here? Of course she was glad. Her boy was home. But the dread in her chest only grew.
He pushed the empty bowl away. She jumped up, refilled his tea, nudged the biscuit tin closer.
“Me and Lucy’s mum split. I’m back for good,” he muttered, not looking up.
“Never mind. Rest up, find work. It’ll sort itself.” She babbled as she washed the bowl, then sat again.
Edward slurped his tea, eyes distant. Finally, he stood.
“Right, Mum. Shattered. Need a kip. We’ll talk later.” He lumbered off to his room.
Washing up, she thought: her heart had known. This wouldn’t be easy. When she peeked in later, he sprawled on the sofa, telly blaring. She perched beside him.
“Tell me what happened. You let them keep the flat? That’s decent of you. This’ll always be your home.”
“What’s to tell? Over and done with.” He didn’t turn his head.
She studied him—older, eyes hollow, a deep crease in his brow. Lost. Maybe just tired? The trip down from Newcastle was long. She’d never visited—no money, then fear set in.
She remembered his graduation, how he’d announced he was moving up north with a mate. New factory, good pay. Big plans. Soon he’d married, had a daughter.
The first few years, they’d all visited. Then it tapered off. By lunch, he’d crack open a bottle. His dad would frown, his wife would grimace.
Once, she’d asked Lucy’s mum how bad it was. The woman had wept.
“We fought… I threatened to leave. He’d stop for three days, then start again.”
Edward brushed off his parents’ concerns. Soon, he stopped visiting. Calls grew rare—always “fine,” always “busy.” New flat, no time, too expensive. When she dared ask if he was drinking, he’d hang up.
Margaret sighed. No use sitting around—she’d shop, let him rest. But when she returned, arms aching with bags, he was gone.
She peeked in his room. His bag was there. She longed to see what he’d brought—proof of a life—but didn’t pry. No gifts? Hard times. She needed nothing.
He stumbled in late, drunk. Fumbled with his shoes, dropped something. “Old mates, probably. Maybe they’ll help him find work,” she thought.
“Had a few, Ma. Don’t start.” He swayed before her, then waved her off and staggered to bed.
When snores rattled the walls, she crept in. He lay sprawled in his clothes. Her heart ached.
At breakfast, he avoided her eyes, refused food, gulped tea.
“What’s the plan?” she asked. “I won’t have drinking here. That’s final.”
“Kicking me out?” He shoved the cup away.
She flinched. Her burnt hand throbbed as if scalded anew.
“Forgot the flat’s half mine?” His bloodshot eyes drilled into her.
She blinked rapidly. Remembered begging her husband to put Edward on the deeds. He’d refused, but she’d insisted. Their only son—had to secure his future.
Edward drained his tea and left.
Days blurred. He’d claim job-hunting, return plastered. She’d stand by the window at night, watching the city lights, dreading what came next.
Then the “mates” started coming. One drunk she could handle—she’d shoo him out once Edward passed out. But gangs? The flat reeked of booze and filth. Mornings meant scrubbing tear-streaked faces, swallowing sobs.
Talking was useless. He’d shrug. Once, he’d even raised a hand. Big like his dad—how could she fight him? She confided in the neighbour, an ex-copper.
“Call the law. They’ll hold him a night. He’ll come back worse. No job? How’s he affording it?”
“Steals from my purse. I hide it now. Found my wedding ring, my earrings—sold them. Too late to stop him. God forgive me, I’m worn out.” Shame burned her cheeks.
“Hold on, Margaret. He’ll slip up—get nicked for theft. That’s when he’ll do time. Till then… if it gets bad, run to me.”
Easy to say “hold on.” But with stinking strangers crashing about? She stopped cooking—they emptied the fridge. Left them bread and beans. She went hungry.
Who could she turn to? Nights were prayers for death, for her husband to take her. Better than this hell—starving, weeping, robbed by her own son.
She wondered when he’d changed. He’d been bright, gentle. They’d been so proud. Thank God his dad didn’t live to see this. He’d despised drunkards.
One day, Edward brought a woman home—thick makeup, cheap clothes. “Louise,” he called her. Said they’d marry.
Margaret knew—she was like him. They drank, brawled, made up. She hid in her room, waited for quiet.One morning, the silence lingered too long, and when she finally opened his door, she found the room empty—just a note on the bed: “Sorry, Mum,” it read, and she clutched it to her chest, knowing some wounds never heal.
