The Chronicles of a Life
Margaret Williams tried to leave her husband twice. Both times, she returned—for the sake of their son.
The first time, she fled to her parents when Andrew started drinking after little Tommy was born. She couldn’t bear his drunken rages any longer. One night, clutching the baby to her chest, she walked out. Andrew chased her into the garden.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Away from you!”
Her mother, a village nurse, just sighed.
“Meg, what did you expect, marrying a lorry driver? That’s just their way—won’t ever change.”
There was nothing to say. She’d chosen this life herself. They’d met, oddly enough, in a library. Margaret was doing work experience there when Andrew came to return a book.
“Looking for something light?” she asked, glancing at his calloused hands.
“Something about love,” he smirked, his gaze piercing straight through her.
She handed him *Brideshead Revisited*. A few days later, he returned—not for another book.
“Didn’t finish it… Fancy going to the pictures instead?”
And she said yes.
It was spring, her head full of rose-tinted dreams, her heart young. She fell in love. Back then, if you wanted to be together, you married. So they did.
A quiet wedding, barely any guests. A month later, he struck her for the first time—for talking too long to a neighbour. Later, of course, he brought daisies and muttered,
“You know I get jealous.”
“Is that an apology?”
“No. A warning.”
She lowered her eyes, silent, setting the flowers in a glass. The bruise under her lip she hid with powder. She forgave him.
But when the baby came and Andrew started drinking—she left. Couldn’t take it. He begged for months, swore he’d stop. And for nearly two years, he did. But every setback drowned in alcohol—he knew no other way.
Once, after a brutal row where he smashed a vase—not at her, but close—she sat at the kitchen table and wrote to her sister:
“Lucy, I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving. I have to save myself.”
She peeked into the nursery. Tommy slept, clutching a toy lorry—his father’s gift. He adored his dad. And the feeling was mutual.
Margaret tore up the letter. If she left, he’d spiral. Their son would watch his father crumble. Better he hate her than be ashamed of him.
Andrew must’ve sensed it. He drank less. Their second son, James, was born. For years, the family lived quietly, almost happily. But the binges returned. After one particularly bad night, she said:
“I don’t love you anymore. I can’t. Not ever.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Completely. But we’ll stay together. For the boys.”
Each night, she checked on the children, placed a heavy book on the bedside table—just in case—and whispered, *”One more day. Not for me. For them.”*
Change came slowly. Years passed. The boys grew. Andrew mellowed, drank rarely. The country was crumbling, shops empty. They moved to Manchester, James just starting school.
The haulage firm Andrew worked for shut down. Desperate, he brought home a bottle and set it on the table.
“No,” Margaret said firmly. “The drink or the boys.”
“Leave it.”
“I won’t.” She grabbed the bottle and poured it down the sink.
He raised a hand—but didnHe lowered it, knowing this time she wouldn’t stay if he crossed that line.
