**My Flesh and Blood**
Elizabeth adored her son, took immense pride in him. Sometimes, she’d marvel that this handsome twenty-four-year-old man was truly hers. How had time slipped away so quickly? Wasn’t it just yesterday he was small? Now he was grown, with a girlfriend—perhaps soon to marry, to start his own family. She thought she was ready for it, that she’d accept any choice he made, as long as he was happy.
And how much he reminded her of herself…
***
She had married young, still in university, swept away by love. Her mother had pleaded with her.
*”Why the rush? You’ll live off student loans? Can’t you wait a year? Finish your studies first. And what if children come? Lizzie, be sensible—love won’t vanish. Besides, that William of yours… well, he’s hardly a prize.”*
Elizabeth hadn’t listened, irritated by her mother’s interference. How could she not understand that life without him was impossible? Of course, Lizzie stood her ground, married him. A colleague of her mother’s offered them a tiny flat left by her late grandmother. No rent, just cover the bills—what sort of money did students have?
The flat was ancient, untouched by renovations for decades. But nearly free. Lizzie thought it luck. She scrubbed it spotless, hung fresh curtains her mother gave her, draped a worn sofa with her own throw. It was livable.
Yet the disillusionment came too soon. And how crushing it was to admit her mother, as always, had been right. Within months, Lizzie wondered—had she been blind?
Money never stayed in William’s pockets. Immediately spent on gadgets or new trainers. Out with mates till dawn, then too hungover for lectures. Did it not matter what they’d eat? Where groceries would come from?
She endured, never confided in her mother. But Mum sensed it all, slipped her money, brought food.
Lately, William invited his mates over more often. *”I’ve got my own place now!”* Starving students raided the fridge, devouring everything Mum had brought.
One morning, William opened the fridge and frowned.
*”Where’s all the food?”*
*”Your mates ate it last night. Or don’t you remember?”* Lizzie snapped.
*”Even the shepherd’s pie?”*
Unlikely they’d drunk through *that*.
*”Pie, lasagna, even the last of the ketchup. Gone.”* She flung her hands wide.
He shut the fridge, settling for tea and a stale crust from the bread bin.
Lizzie couldn’t take it anymore. If he didn’t care about *her*, the wife scrubbing grime off dishes night after night, then at least respect her *mother*—buying their food, cooking for them, only for William to feed it to his freeloading friends. Not one had chipped in. Did their parents not send them money? Potatoes? Jam?
He apologised, promised it wouldn’t happen again. But Fridays came, and the lads descended like locusts, stripping the fridge bare.
*”I’ve had enough,”* Lizzie said, knowing it meant the end of her marriage.
The mates stopped coming. But now William vanished with them. Then, increasingly, didn’t come home at all. After one final row—him calling her *”nagging, boring”*—she packed her things and returned to Mum’s.
*”How did it all go wrong? Where’s the love?”* she wept into her mother’s shoulder.
*”You rushed, darling. That William wasn’t done sowing his wild oats.”*
Back home, Lizzie discovered she was pregnant. Between arguments and stress, she’d forgotten her pills. Mum urged termination—*”Raising a child alone is hard.”*
But Lizzie refused again. She never told William. The divorce was swift. She had little Matthew after graduation. Finally yielding to Mum’s pressure, she took a paternity test, filed for child support. William never contested it, paid dutifully—though he never met or asked about his son.
And Lizzie? She poured every ounce of love into Matthew, gave him everything. No other men existed. If his own father didn’t care, why would a stranger? Mum helped, but they clashed over Lizzie’s refusal to date. Three in a tiny flat was suffocating.
Then, unexpected luck. William’s mother, guilt-ridden over her son, left the flat to Lizzie and her grandson. She’d wanted to refuse, but William himself insisted—*”I’m leaving anyway.”*
Moving out eased the tension with Mum.
Now here she was, still young, with a grown son—degree secured, job in hand. Kids these days left home early, but Matthew lingered.
***
So lost in reminiscence, she didn’t hear Matthew return.
*”Mum! I’m home,”* his deep voice called from the hall. She startled, setting the table, flicking the kettle on.
She watched him, chin propped on her hand.
*”Mum… I’ve got something to tell you.”* Matthew pushed his empty plate away.
*”What’s happened?”* She straightened.
*”I’m getting married.”*
*”Goodness, don’t scare me like that! I’m thrilled—Sophie will make a wonderful—”*
*”Not Sophie. She’s lovely, but… I’m marrying *Hannah*.”*
Lizzie listened, watching his dazzled expression, knowing their quiet life was over.
*”How long have you known her?”*
*”A month.”*
*”And you’re marrying her? You hardly know—”*
*”I *love* her. We’ve already filed at the registry.”*
The final blow. Panic clawed up her throat. Her boy—her *child*, whom she’d loved, fought for—hadn’t asked. Just announced. *Breathe.*
Memory surfaced. Walking home from nursery, Matthew tripped on a rock, scraped his knees, bawled more from shock than pain. She’d comforted him, then kicked the stone hard.
*”That’ll teach you, lying in wait for my boy.”*
She’d cleaned his scrapes, dabbed antiseptic, blown gently to soothe. Not so long ago. Now he spoke of marriage—and she wanted to kick Hannah just the same.
*”When will I meet her?”* She fought to keep her voice steady.
*”Tomorrow. Don’t fuss—just tea, alright?”*
*”Have you met her parents?”*
*”They’re up in Scotland. We’re skipping the big wedding, just signing the papers.”*
*”Where does she live?”*
*”She’s in a flat now. You’ll see—you’ll love her.”* Then he was gone, off to work.
She washed dishes, telling herself: *It could be worse.*
Yet tomorrow, she roasted chicken, tossed a salad, bought cake, even styled her hair.
*”Mum, we’re here!”*
Hannah was slight, doll-faced, hiding fear behind aloofness. Her cream turtleneck and loose trousers too mature for twenty-two. Hair sleek in a bun. *”Dressed to impress me,”* Lizzie thought coldly.
Hannah’s father was a carpenter, mother a schoolteacher. Normal. She blogged instead of working.
Matthew hung on her every word. Lizzie saw it—this girl knew her power, wielded it. Matthew was smitten, malleable. It *hurt*. She’d raised him, and now he’d bend himself for this girl.
*”Which university did you attend?”*
*”Oxford. English Lit.”* A faint grimace.
*”And your blogging pays?”*
*”It does, Mum. We’ve got to go—Hannah’s got a livestream.”*
Gone. No tea, no cake. Lizzie ate a slice alone, tears blending with icing.
*”Remember *you* wouldn’t listen,”* Mum said over the phone.
*”Oh, *comforting* as ever.”* She slammed the receiver down.
Days later, Matthew moved in with Hannah. Lizzie pleaded—useless. Love. Passion. He *needed* her.
*”You’ll die alone!”* Mum’s salt in the wound.
Three weeks on, Matthew returned—haggard.
*”Everything alright?”*
*”Fine. Just… Hannah’s filming. Didn’t want to intrude.”*
She fed him mashed potatoes, fried sausages. Watched him devour it. How she’d missed him. Packed containers for him to take.
After that, he came often for dinner, lingered. She sensed trouble but didn’t pry.
Finally, she visited. The flat was a sty. Hannah, draped in shapeless clothes, barely acknowledged her. Lizzie washed dishes, left groceries, and left.
How it *stung*. Hannah was self-absorbed, dinnerless, slovenly. Yet *”poor”* Matthew? No. His choice.
One evening, he asked, *”And as she watched her son rebuild his life with Sophie, Lizzie finally understood that love wasn’t about holding on—but learning to let go.
