**My Flesh and Blood**
I always adored my son, took such pride in him. Sometimes I’d catch myself marvelling—how could this handsome, grown man of twenty-four possibly be my little boy? Where did the time go? It felt like only yesterday he was small enough to cradle, and now here he was, a man with a girlfriend, talk of marriage, a life of his own. I thought I was ready for it—that I’d accept any choice he made, so long as he was happy.
And God, he was so like me…
***
I’d married young, still at university, swept up in what I swore was love. Mum begged me to wait.
“What’s the rush? Planning to live on your student loan? Can’t you hold off just a year? Finish your degree first. And what if there’s a baby? Lizzie, think it through—love won’t vanish if you wait. Besides, that Rob of yours… he’s hardly a prize.”
I wouldn’t listen. How could she not understand? Life without him was unbearable. Of course, I had my way—we married. One of Mum’s colleagues offered us her late mother’s old flat, barely standing after decades without a lick of paint. No rent, just cover the bills. What student could refuse?
I scrubbed the place raw, hung the lace curtains Mum gave me, draped the threadbare sofa with my own throw. It was home.
But disillusionment came too soon. And how it stung to admit Mum had been right—as usual. Within three months, I barely recognised Rob. Had I been blind?
Money burned a hole in his pocket—new trainers, nights out with his mates, sleeping through lectures. Did it ever cross his mind how we’d eat? That his wages never stretched to groceries?
I bit my tongue, hid it from Mum. But she knew. She’d slip me cash, bring round shopping.
Then Rob started inviting his friends over—his own flat, after all! A pack of hungry students, emptying the fridge of every scrap Mum brought.
One morning, he flung the fridge door open. “Where’s the food?”
“Your lot finished it last night. Or don’t you remember?” I snapped.
“Even the sausage rolls?”
“Everything. The pasta, the lemon, even the ketchup.”
He scowled, made do with stale bread and weak tea.
That was it. I told him exactly what I thought—if he cared so little for his wife, scrubbing floors after his mess, could he at least respect my mother? Feeding his mates like they were stray dogs. Did they ever chip in? Bring so much as a loaf? Most had parents sending them money, home-cooked meals…
He apologised, swore it wouldn’t happen again. But by Friday, the lads were back, swarming like locusts.
“I’m done,” I said, knowing it was the end.
After that, the flat stayed empty—because Rob did too. Nights out became nights away. Then the final blow: “You’re boring. Nag, nag, nag.” I packed my things, went home to Mum.
“Where did the love go?” I sobbed into her shoulder.
“You rushed it, love. He wasn’t ready,” she said, stroking my hair.
Back under Mum’s roof, I discovered I was pregnant. Amid rows and tears, I’d forgotten my pills. Mum urged me to terminate—raising a child alone was hard.
But I didn’t listen. I never told Rob. The divorce was swift. Paul arrived after graduation. Mum wore me down—we did a paternity test, filed for child support. Rob paid, but never asked after his son.
And me? I poured every ounce of love into my boy. No men—what stranger could love him like his own father ought to? Mum helped, but we fought over my refusal to date. Three of us in that house was suffocating.
Then a stroke of luck: Rob’s mother left the flat to me and Paul in her will. Guilt, perhaps, for her son’s failings. I nearly refused—until Rob insisted. Said he was moving away anyway.
So we left Mum’s, and the rows stopped.
Now here I was, still young, with a grown son—degree, job, steady girl. These days, kids leave home early. Yet Paul stayed…
***
Lost in memories, I didn’t hear him come in.
“Mum! I’m home,” he called from the hall. I jumped up, set the kettle, laid the table.
Then I sat, chin propped on my hand, watching him eat.
“Mum… need to tell you something,” Paul said, pushing his plate away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Well—everything. I’m getting married.”
“You nearly gave me a heart attack!” I laughed. “I’m thrilled, love. Sophie’ll make a wonderful—”
“Not Sophie. She’s great, but… it’s Lucy.”
“Lucy?” My voice cracked.
“We split months ago. Lucy’s… she’s amazing. I’ve never felt like this.”
A month. One month, and he’d slapped a notice in at the registry office. My chest tightened, breath shallow. I’d thought I was ready—but my boy, my heart, hadn’t even asked.
Breathe.
I remembered a day years ago—Paul, tiny then, tripped on a kerbstone, scraped knees wailing. I’d kicked the stone hard. “That’ll teach you!” At home, I’d dabbed his cuts with antiseptic, blown softly to soothe the sting.
Now? I wanted to kick Lucy.
“When do I meet her?” I asked, steady.
“Tomorrow. Just tea, yeah?”
“Her parents?”
“Up in Scotland. We’re keeping it simple—registry, no fuss.”
“And where’s she living?”
“Flat near her work. Mum, just meet her. You’ll love her.”
He vanished into his room. I washed up, telling myself: It could be worse.
Next day, I roasted a chicken anyway, bought a cake, even set my hair. Paul fetched her.
“Mum, we’re here!”
Lucy was doll-like, trembling but haughty. Twenty-two at most, in a cream jumper, hair scraped back—too prim for her age. Playing a part, I decided.
Her dad was a plumber, mum a nurse. Lucy blogged—no proper job. Paul hung on her every word. This fragile thing had him wrapped round her finger. It stung—my boy, bending himself for her.
But I bit my tongue.
“You studied?” I asked.
“English, at Leeds.” She wrinkled her nose.
“And blogging pays?”
“Enough,” Paul cut in. “We’ve got to go—Lucy’s got a livestream.”
Tea untouched, cake uneaten. Alone, I ate a slice, tears salty on my lips. Rang Mum.
“Remember yourself,” she said. “You wouldn’t listen either. Live with it, or lose him.”
Two days later, Paul moved in with her. I begged—no use. Love blinded him.
Then, three weeks on, he turned up—hollow-eyed, unshaven.
“Everything alright?” I asked.
“Fine. Lucy’s filming. Thought I’d visit.”
I’d made mash, fried cutlets—mother’s instinct. Watched him wolf it down, packed leftovers for him.
After that, he came often, never rushing back. Something was wrong, but I didn’t pry.
Once, I visited unannounced. Lucy answered, muss-haired, in a baggy jumper. The flat was a tip—dirty plates piled high. She didn’t even offer tea. I washed up, left food, went home aching for my son.
Then one evening: “Mum… can I stay?”
“Of course. Just tonight or—?”
“I don’t know. I can’t do it anymore. She sleeps till noon, films, writes. I cook, clean, shop… I’m knackered. Sometimes I think she wouldn’t notice if I vanished.”
“My poor boy.” I stroked his hair. That kerbstone—I’d kick it harder this time.
No wedding happened. Paul came home, filled out, smiled again. One day, I caught him preening.
“Seeing Lucy?”
“Nah. Cinema with Sophie.”
“Good. She suits you.”
“Thanks, Mum,” he said suddenly.
“For what?”
“Not gloating. Not prying.”
They married six months later. Paul even invited Rob—turns out they’d stayed in touch. Rob, grey now, remarried, childless.
“Let me know the grandkids,” he said. Time had dulled the hurt.
Paul and Sophie waited two years. Weekends, I’d push the pram while she cooked. Once, I bumped into Lucy.
“Paul’s?” She eyed the pram. “How is he?”
“Happy. Married Sophie. You?”
“Journalist now.”
“Good for you.”
Walking away, I thought: She’s grown up. Hope she finds happiness.
And as I watched the autumn leaves gather at my feet, I realised that love, in all its forms, was never about holding on—but knowing when to let go.
