**My Flesh and Blood**
Margaret adored her son and took immense pride in him. Sometimes she marvelled at the fact that this handsome twenty-four-year-old man was her own child. Where had the time gone? It felt like only yesterday he was a little boy—now here he was, grown up, with a girlfriend, likely to marry soon, starting his own family. She told herself she was prepared for it, that she’d accept any choice he made as long as he was happy.
He looked so much like her.
***
She had married young, still at university, swept away by love. Her mother had tried to dissuade her.
*”Why the rush? Planning to live off your student loan? Can’t you wait a year? Finish your degree first. And what if you have children? Maggie, think this through—love isn’t going anywhere. And that David of yours… he’s hardly a prize.”*
But Margaret wouldn’t listen. How could her mother not understand? Life without him was unthinkable. Of course, she got her way—she married him. One of her mother’s colleagues offered them a small flat, left behind by her late mother, who’d passed the year before. No rent, just cover the bills—what student had money to spare?
The place was ancient, untouched by renovation for decades. But nearly free? Margaret counted herself lucky. She scrubbed it clean, hung the fresh curtains her mother had given her, and covered the threadbare sofa with her own throw. It was home.
The disappointment in married life—and in her husband—came far too soon. And how painful it was to admit that, as always, her mother had been right. Within three months, Margaret found herself baffled—had she been blind? How had she misjudged David so badly?
Money never stayed in his hands. He’d blow it straightaway on clothes or new trainers. Out with his mates until all hours, then too hungover for lectures. Did it never cross his mind how they would afford food? Where she was supposed to get groceries?
She endured it, telling her mother nothing. But her mum saw it anyway—gave her money, brought food.
Lately, David had taken to inviting his friends over more often. *He* had his own flat now, didn’t he? And the ever-hungry students emptied the fridge, eating everything her mother had brought.
One morning, David opened the fridge and frowned.
*”Where’s the food?”*
*”Your mates ate it last night—remember?”* Margaret snapped.
*”Even the scones?”* he asked. Unlikely those had gone down with the beer.
*”The scones, the bangers, the pasta—even the ketchup and lemon. All gone.”* She threw her hands up.
He shut the fridge, settling for tea and a stale crust of bread from the cupboard.
Margaret couldn’t take it anymore. If he didn’t care about *her*, his wife—who scrubbed his mess and mopped the floors—then at least respect her mother. She *bought* their groceries, brought home-cooked meals—and he just fed it all to his mates. Had even one of them chipped in? Brought a loaf of bread? Most of them got money or care packages from *their* parents…
David apologised, promised it wouldn’t happen again. But a week later, Friday rolled around—in came his mates, devouring everything like locusts.
*”I’ve had enough. I can’t do this anymore,”* Margaret said, knowing she was ending her marriage.
His friends stopped coming—but now David vanished with them instead. Lately, he hadn’t been coming home at night at all. After one final row—him calling her boring, nagging—Margaret packed her things and went back to her mother.
*”How did this happen? Where did the love go?”* she sobbed into her mother’s shoulder.
*”You just rushed it, love. He wasn’t ready,”* her mother murmured, stroking her hair.
Back home, Margaret discovered she was pregnant. Between the rows and the stress, she’d forgotten her pills. Her mother urged her to *”take care of it”* while she still could—raising a child alone was hard.
But once again, Margaret ignored her. She never told David. The divorce was quick. Little Paul arrived after she’d graduated. After endless persuasion, she did a paternity test—just to stop David contesting—and filed for child support. He paid, though he never once saw or asked after his son.
But Margaret adored her boy, poured all her love into him. Men? Out of the question. His own father hadn’t cared—why would a stranger? Her mother helped, but they fought more—Margaret refusing to have a life of her own. It was too cramped, the three of them.
Then, unexpectedly, luck struck—David’s mother left the flat to Margaret and her grandson in her will. Guilt, perhaps, for her son’s failings. Margaret nearly refused—until David himself insisted. Said he was leaving town anyway, wasn’t sure when he’d be back.
She moved out, and the quarrels with her mother stopped.
She was still young—yet here she was, with a grown son, graduated and working. These days, kids left home early—but Paul wasn’t in any hurry.
***
So lost in thought, Margaret didn’t hear her son return from work.
*”Mum! I’m home,”* his deep voice called from the hall. She jumped up, set the table, put the kettle on.
Later, she watched him, chin propped on her hand.
*”Mum, there’s something I need to tell you,”* Paul said, pushing away his empty plate.
*”What’s wrong?”* She sat straighter.
*”Nothing—well, yes. I’m getting married.”*
*”You scared me! I thought—oh, darling, that’s wonderful. Sophie will make a lovely wife—”*
*”Not Sophie. She’s great, but I don’t love her,”* he cut in.
*”Oh? I thought—”*
*”We broke up. I’m marrying Hannah. She’s amazing—just—”*
Margaret listened, watching the glow in his face, knowing their quiet life was ending.
*”How long have you been seeing her? You never mentioned her.”*
*”A month.”*
*”A *month* and you’re marrying her? You barely *know* her—”*
*”I love her. You’d understand if you met her. We’ve already filed the papers.”*
That last bit shattered her. Panic flared—her heart dropped, then raced, choking her. She’d *thought* she was ready. Her boy, her darling—raised with sleepless nights, for whom she’d move heaven and earth—hadn’t asked, hadn’t consulted. Just dropped the bomb. *Breathe,* she told herself, gulping air.
A memory surfaced—Paul, stumbling over a rock outside nursery, knees scraped, crying more from frustration than pain. She’d soothed him—then kicked the stone hard.
*”Take that! Lying in the way—made my boy hurt himself.”*
At home, she’d cleaned his knees, dabbed on antiseptic, blown softly to ease the sting. That felt like yesterday. Now he was getting married. And right then, she wanted to kick this *Hannah* the same way.
*”When will I meet her?”* she asked, forcing calm.
*”Tomorrow. Don’t cook—just tea, yeah?”*
*”Have you met her family?”*
*”They’re up in Scotland. We’re keeping it simple—just the registry office.”*
*”Where does she live?”*
*”Student halls before, now she rents. Mum, *stop*. She’ll answer everything tomorrow. You’ll love her.”* He stood. *”I’ve got work.”*
He left. She washed up, telling herself things could be worse.
The next day, she roasted a chicken anyway, made salad, bought cake, cleaned the flat, even styled her hair. Paul fetched his fiancée.
*”Mum, we’re here!”*
Beside him stood a tiny, nervous girl with doll-like features. Her fear was masked by aloofness. She wore a fitted cream jumper and loose white trousers. Twenty-two at most—girls that age usually dressed bolder, dyed their hair, didn’t fuss with updos. Hannah’s hair was slicked back in an intricate bun. *”Dressed to impress me,”* Margaret thought, ushering them in.
Hannah’s father was a builder; her mother, a teacher. Normal working-class. She’d graduated but wasn’t employed—just ran a blog.
Paul hung on her every word. Fragile as she looked, this girl *knew* her power—and wielded it. He was under her spell. Margaret’s heart ached for him. She’d raised him, and now he’d bend over backwards for *her*. *Calm down,* she told herself. *This is jealousy—But as the years passed, Margaret came to see that Hannah truly loved her son, and she finally understood that letting go was the greatest act of love a mother could give.
