The Chronicles of a Life
Margaret Elizabeth tried to leave her husband twice. Both times, she came back. For their son.
The first time, she fled to her parents when Alan started drinking after little William was born. She couldn’t bear his drunken rages anymore—slipping out in the dead of night, clutching the baby to her chest. Alan caught her in the garden:
“Where the hell d’you think you’re going?”
“Away from you!”
Her mother, a village nurse, just sighed.
“Margot, what did you expect, marrying a lorry driver? That’s their way—’celebrating.’ It won’t change.”
She had no answer. She’d chosen this life herself. They’d met, oddly enough, in a library. Margaret was doing her internship there; Alan had come to return a book.
“Something light for you?” she asked, eyeing his rough hands.
“Something about love,” he smirked, staring right through her.
She handed him *The Great Gatsby*. Days later, he returned—not for another book.
“Didn’t finish it… Fancy the pictures instead?”
She said yes.
It was spring, her head full of rosy dreams, her heart full of youth. She fell in love. Back then, if you wanted to be together, you married. So they did.
The wedding was small—barely any guests. A month later, he hit her for the first time—she’d talked too long to the neighbour. Later, he brought daisies and muttered,
“You know I’m jealous.”
“Is that an apology?”
“No. A warning.”
She stayed silent, arranging the flowers in a glass. Powder hid the bruise beneath her lip. She forgave him.
But when William was born and Alan began drinking in earnest, she left. Couldn’t take it. For six months, he begged her to return, swore he’d quit. And he did—for nearly two years. Yet every hardship drowned in whisky. He knew no other way.
One night, after a vicious row—when Alan smashed a vase (not at her, *near* her)—she sat at the kitchen table, writing her sister:
*Lucy, I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving. I have to save myself.*
She peeked into the nursery. William slept, clutching a toy lorry—his father’s gift. He adored Alan. The feeling was mutual.
Margaret tore the letter up. If she left, he’d spiral. Their son would watch his father unravel. Better he hate *her* than be ashamed of *him*.
Alan must’ve sensed it. He drank less. A second son, Thomas, arrived. For years, the family lived quietly, almost happily. But the binges returned. After one, he stumbled home half-delirious, and she said,
“I don’t love you anymore. I can’t. I never will.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Completely. But we’ll stay together. For the boys.”
Each night, she checked on the boys, placed a heavy hardback on the bedside table—just in case—and whispered, *One more day. Not for me. For them.*
Change came slow. Years passed. The children grew. Alan mellowed, drank barely at all. The country faltered; shops emptied. They moved to Manchester, just as Thomas started school.
The haulage firm where Alan worked shut down. Desperate, he brought home a bottle and slammed it on the table.
“No,” Margaret said firmly. “The drink or the children.”
“Piss off.”
“Not this time.” She grabbed the bottle and poured it down the sink.
He raised a hand—but didn’t strike. Knew if he did, he’d lose everything. She wouldn’t relent.
In ’95, they got a plot to build on. No money—borrowed from her parents.
“We’ll do it ourselves,” he said suddenly.
She didn’t believe him. But every weekend, they drove to the site: him mixing cement, her hauling bricks. Once, she slipped, gashing her knee. He ran over,
“Bloody idiot—why’d you push yourself?!”
But his voice shook—real fear.
The house took years. But they built it. When the roof was sealed, he brought champagne. They sat on the beams, drinking from plastic cups.
“Proper nice, eh?”
“Hard to believe,” she said.
He stayed sober. But love didn’t return.
“Mum, why d’you stay?” grown-up William asked once. “You’re strangers.”
“I promised—for better or worse. And you needed a father. Even him. You’ll understand when you have children.”
Now, they’re both past seventy.
Alan dotes on the grandchildren, and Margaret thinks: *If I’d left then, he’d have died. These children wouldn’t exist. So it wasn’t for nothing.*
They live in the house they built. Separate bedrooms, separate televisions. She listens to Elgar; he watches *Coronation Street*. They watch the news together. Here, they’re a union.
The boys call daily. Grandchildren grin from framed photos. Recently, five-year-old Lottie visited. Climbing onto Margaret’s lap, she asked,
“Granny, what’s love?”
Out back, Alan chopped firewood—steady, methodical, like everything he’s done these twenty years.
“It’s forgiving someone for what you’d never forgive in others.”
“How come you forgive Gramps?”
The question startled her. Lottie’s eyes held the same depth William’s once did.
“I didn’t forgive. I just chose, every day, what mattered more.”
“What mattered more?”
The door creaked. Alan walked in.
“You,” she said. “Your dad. Your uncle. This house. Even Gramps’ bloody soaps…”
Lottie giggled. “So *that’s* love?”
“No, poppet. That’s endurance. Love… comes in all sorts. You’ll know the real thing someday.”
Alan peered from the kitchen.
“Cuppa, Margot?”
“Just a minute,” she replied.
It isn’t love. But it’s something sturdier. Was it worth it?
No answer. Or perhaps you know?
