The Chronicles of a Life
Margaret Thompson tried to leave her husband twice. Both times, she came back. For the sake of her son.
The first time, she fled to her parents when Alan started drinking after little James was born. She couldn’t take his drunken rages anymore—in the dead of night, clutching the baby to her chest, she walked out. Alan caught her in the yard:
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Away from you!”
Her mother, a village nurse, only sighed:
“Meg, what did you expect, marrying a lorry driver? That’s just how they unwind—it won’t change.”
There was nothing to say. She’d made her own bed. They’d met, oddly enough, in a library. Margaret was doing her student placement there when Alan came in to return a book.
“Something light?” she asked, glancing at his rough hands.
“Something about love,” he smirked, looking straight through her.
She gave him *Of Human Bondage*. A few days later, he returned—not for a book.
“Didn’t finish it… Fancy the pictures instead?”
And 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 modest, barely any guests. A month later, he hit her for the first time—for talking too long to the neighbour. Later, of course, he brought daisies and muttered:
“You know I’m jealous.”
“Is that an apology?”
“No. A warning.”
She said nothing, put the flowers in a glass. Covered the bruise beneath her lip with powder. Forgave him.
But when the baby came and Alan started drinking—she left. She couldn’t take it. He spent six months begging her to return, swearing he’d quit. And he did—stayed sober almost two years. But every bit of stress drowned in ale. He knew no other way.
One night, after a vicious row where Alan 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. James was asleep, clutching a toy lorry—his father’s gift. He adored Alan. And the feeling was mutual.
Margaret tore up the letter. If she left, he’d fall apart. Their son would watch his father destroy himself. Better he hate her than be ashamed of him.
Alan must have sensed it. He drank less. Their second son, Thomas, was born. For a few 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. Not ever.”
“Are you mad?”
“Completely. But we’ll stay together. For the boys.”
Every night, she checked if the children were asleep, left a heavy book on the nightstand—just in case—and whispered: *”One more day. Not for me. For them.”*
Change came slowly. Years passed. The boys grew. Alan calmed, settled, mostly stayed sober. The country was crumbling, shops stood empty. They moved to Manchester just as Thomas started school.
The haulage firm where he worked shut down. In despair, Alan brought home a bottle and set it on the table.
“No,” Margaret said firmly. “The drink, or the children.”
“Leave off.”
“I won’t.” She grabbed the bottle and tipped it down the sink.
He raised a hand—but didn’t strike. He knew: if he did, he’d lose everything. She wouldn’t bend.
In 1995, they got a plot to build on. Skint, they borrowed from her parents.
“We’ll do it ourselves,” he said suddenly.
She didn’t believe him. But every weekend, they went to the site: he mixed cement, she hauled bricks. Once, she slipped and gashed her knee badly. He ran over:
“Silly cow, why’d you push yourself?”
But his voice held fear—real, raw.
They built the house. Not quickly. But they built it. When the roof went on, he brought champagne. They sat on the beams, drinking from plastic cups.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Hard to believe,” she said.
He stayed sober. But love didn’t return.
“Mum, why d’you stay with him?” James asked once, grown. “You’re strangers.”
“I vowed—for better, for worse. And you needed a father. Even him. You’ll understand when you have kids.”
Now they’re both past seventy.
Alan dotes on the grandkids, and Margaret thinks: *If I’d left, he’d have been a goner. These children wouldn’t exist. So it wasn’t for nothing.*
They live in the house they built. Separate rooms, separate telly. She listens to Mozart, he watches *Judge Rinder*. They watch the news together. A truce.
The boys call daily. Grandchildren grin from framed photos. Recently, five-year-old Evie visited. Climbing onto Margaret’s lap, she asked:
“What’s love?”
Outside, Grandpa was methodically chopping wood. Like everything he’s done these past twenty years.
“It’s forgiving someone what you wouldn’t forgive anyone else.”
“Like you forgive Grandad?”
She hadn’t expected that. The girl’s eyes held the same depth James’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,” Granny said. “Your dad. Your uncle. This house. Even Grandad’s rubbish telly…”
Evie giggled:
“So that’s love?”
“No, poppet. That’s endurance. Love… comes in kinds. You’ll know the real thing someday.”
Alan peered from the kitchen:
“Cuppa, Meg?”
“I’ll put the kettle on,” she replied.
It isn’t love. But it’s stronger. Was it worth it?
No answer. Or maybe you know?
