Margaret Peterson buttons her nightdress and smooths her hair into a simple braid when the sharp ring shatters the quiet. She jolts, glancing at the clock – half nine already.
“Hullo?” Silence hums down the line. “Hullo, who is this?”
“Mum?” The voice is barely a whisper as if afraid of being overheard.
“Emily? What’s the matter? You know I hate late calls!” Margaret sinks onto the bed edge, clutching the receiver. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah… No… Mum, can I come over? Right now?”
Something in Emily’s tone makes Margaret’s heart tighten. Emily never asks for help, prides herself on coping. “Of course, come over. What’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. I’m leaving now.”
The dial tone buzzes. Margaret stands frozen before setting the phone down to put the kettle on. Emily lives in a nearby suburb, about forty minutes by bus without traffic. So, an hour.
Margaret fetches the good china cups, the ones for visitors, slices lemon, arranges biscuits on a plate. Her hands tremble slightly – a bad feeling lingers.
Emily arrives sooner than expected. Margaret opens the door to find her daughter on the step, eyes red, hair messy. A sports bag hangs from her hand.
“Oh, my love…” Margaret hugs Emily, feeling her shake. “Come in, quick. I’ve made tea.”
They sit at the kitchen table. Emily drinks her tea silently, occasionally sniffling. Margaret waits, hesitant to push.
“He hits me, Mum,” Emily finally whispers, so softly Margaret strains to hear. “It’s not the first time.”
Margaret sets her cup down, feeling ice flood her chest. “He hits you? Andrew? What are you saying!”
“And why would I lie?” Emily lifts her head sharply. A bruise, clumsily hidden by makeup, shadows her eye. “Look!”
“Goodness…” Margaret reaches out, but Emily pulls back.
“Don’t pity me! I asked for it, didn’t I? Thought marriage would change him, calm him down… Stupid. Mum, I was stupid!”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could have—”
“And done what?” Emily laughs bitterly. “Urged me to put up with it? Stay for the sake of the family? For the children? You always said you marry once and forever.”
Margaret lowers her gaze. It’s true; she believed that. Lived with Emily’s father for forty years, though it wasn’t easy. Bore his drinking, his rudeness, his indifference. Thought that was the way.
“Where are the children?”
“At his mum’s. Told them I was visiting Nana.” Emily wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “Don’t want them seeing me like this. Sophie’s only seven, and Oliver… he understands things aren’t right. Asked me yesterday why Daddy shouts at Mummy.”
“What did you say?”
“That Daddy’s stressed at work.” Emily clenches her fists. “Learned to lie to them. Brilliant, eh?”
Margaret stands, walks to the window. Rain spatters outside, lamplight glows yellow in puddles. How often she stood here when her husband stayed out late or staggered home drunk and angry. How often she thought of leaving, but stayed. For her daughter, she’d thought then.
“Where is he now?”
“Home. Sleeping it off. Drank himself senseless.” Emily shudders. “Mum, I can’t anymore. I won’t have the children raised like that. Remember how scared I got when Dad came home drunk? Hiding in the cupboard, praying he wouldn’t yell at me?”
“Your father never raised a hand to us!”
“He bellowed enough for the neighbours to bang on the wall! And you forgave it. Tolerated it. I thought then that was normal, that all men were like that.” Emily looks at her mother. “I don’t want Sophie growing up believing a man can treat her like dirt.”
Margaret returns to the table, sits facing her daughter. “But he’s not always like this. I remember how well you lived those first years. He loves you—”
“Mum!” Emily slams her fist on the table. “This isn’t love! A loving man never hits a woman! Never!”
“And if you provoked him?”
“I provoked him?” Emily stands, paces. “Know how I ‘provoked’ him this time? Asked him not to smoke in the children’s room. Sophie’s coughing at night; the doctor thinks she’s developing asthma. He snapped, ‘Don’t tell me where to smoke in my own house!’ Then he struck my face.”
“Must you quarrel? Couldn’t you be softer—”
“Mum, listen to yourself!” Emily stops, staring. “You’re excusing the man who hit your daughter!”
Margaret flounders. Not excusing, just… trying to understand. A lifetime believing peace at any cost is key. The man works, tires, needs calm at home. The woman provides it, gives way, doesn’t argue.
“I’m not excusing. Only… perhaps try again? Talk seriously?”
“I tried. After the first shove, I calmly talked. Told him it hurt my soul too. He apologised, promised never again. Brought flowers, was sweet as pie for a week. Then it started again.”
Emily walks back, picks up a photo frame from the windowsill. A wedding picture: her and Andrew, young, beaming, in love.
“Mum, remember what the neighbours said when we moved in? That he was a good lad, hard-working, doesn’t drink or smoke. Everyone envied my catch.”
“I remember. Still do. Maybe he has troubles? Work problems?”
“Everyone has problems!” Emily slams the photo down. “I have nightmares at my job, a rotten boss, late pay. But I don’t hit my children or my husband over it!”
“The children… But they love their dad.”
“They do. That’s the worst.” Emily covers her face. “Yesterday Oliver asked, ‘Mummy, does Daddy punish you like me when you’re naughty?’ See? He thinks it’s normal!”
Margaret feels something turn inside. Yes, she remembers that fear in her daughter’s young eyes when her husband came home foul-tempered. How Emily hid behind her, flinched at loud noises.
“Where will you go? With children, no job… The flat’s in his name.”
“I’”ll find work. Rent a room. Sort myself out somehow.” Emily straightens. “Key thing is the kids are safe.”
“What if he won’t let them go?”
“He hits me; he can’t control himself. What kind of father is that?” Emily walks to the window. “Know what I realised? When a man raises his hand to a woman, he stops being a man. He’s just… something that can’t solve problems properly.”
“Emily, perhaps think it through? Go off somewhere, have a break… Then come back and start fresh?”
Her daughter turns. Margaret sees something new in her eyes—resolve. “Mum, you mean well. But fresh starts need something left *to* start. There’s nothing left for us. Only fear, lies, and the habit of putting up.”
“But you loved each other…”
“Loved. But love can’t live beside fear.” Emily returns, takes her mum’s
Margaret lay in the darkness, listening to her daughter’s soft breathing from the living room, steeling herself for the challenge that sunrise would inevitably bring. Beyond the window, dawn’s muted light began warming the glass pane, signalling the clear, difficult start to their shared new chapter.
