Margaret trudged home, exhausted and hollow. In one hand she carried her handbag, in the other—a plastic bag of groceries bought on the way. Her legs threatened to give way beneath her. She wanted to sit right there on the pavement and never move again. But at home, Max was waiting. Her son. The only purpose in her life. Without him, she’d have given up on this pointless existence long ago.
Some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouth—their lives unfolding effortlessly. Others, like Margaret, were born for endless struggle. Back in Year 11, at a classmate’s birthday, she’d met a boy two years older. He’d seemed so grown-up, so strong, unbound by rules. She fell for him, head over heels.
Margaret wasn’t beautiful, but pleasant-looking, like any girl her age. Pale grey eyes, straight chestnut hair, full lips, a slim figure with curves in all the right places.
That January, her mother was hospitalised with pneumonia. The flat was suddenly Margaret’s—and his. One thing led to another, as it does with inexperienced girls at seventeen. She’d believed his sweet words, his promises, the easy lies of young love.
When she realised she was pregnant, she ran straight to him.
*”What’s it got to do with me? What kind of father would I be? Look at me. Find some other idiot…”* And just like that, he vanished from her life as fast as he’d appeared.
What now? Who could she turn to? Time slipped by, and still, she couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother.
Spring came, and with it, lighter clothes. Margaret stood before the mirror, struggling to fasten her jeans over her swelling waist. Her blouse strained at the buttons.
*”You’ve put on weight,”* came her mother’s voice behind her. Margaret flinched. *”Let me see—”* Her mother spun her around, gasped, and pressed a hand to her chest.
*”Whose is it? How far along? Why didn’t you tell me?”*
Her mother screamed, berated her, chased her through the flat with a tea towel. Later, they sat on the sofa, arms around each other, crying. It was too late for an abortion.
Margaret finished her A-levels but didn’t go to university. In late September, she gave birth to a sweet-faced boy, his features echoing those of her careless, irresponsible lover.
Once he was older, her mother pulled strings to get Margaret a job at the council housing office. She hated it—endless complaints from residents, threats, paperwork. For extra cash, she cleaned offices at night, scrubbing floors scuffed by dozens of shoes. Max needed clothes, nursery fees.
He grew up quiet, causing no trouble for Margaret or his grandmother. She denied herself everything, but Max never wanted for love, care, or toys.
When he started school, her mother fell seriously ill. Eight months later, she was gone. Margaret took on another job—cleaning a nearby office. Just mopping wasn’t enough; there were windows, post-renovation messes. She dragged herself home each night, barely able to stand.
Then adolescence hit. Max became withdrawn, snapping when she asked about school. She knew he needed watching—one wrong step, and he could fall in with the wrong crowd. But she came home too late, too tired for more than a simple dinner and a half-hearted *”How was school?”*
Lately, she’d noticed bruises on his arms, scrapes on his face. *”Fell in PE,”* he’d mutter.
Then she saw him with a girl. That wouldn’t have been a problem, if not for how she looked—oversized black hoodie, baggy trousers, neon-pink hair, a nose ring. Maybe she was nice. Maybe it was just fashion. But not all girls dressed like that.
Margaret tried to talk to Max, but he just grunted and locked himself in his room. What could she do? Maybe this was just puppy love, something he’d grow out of. Yelling wouldn’t help. But her heart ached. He was alone all day. What if he repeated her mistakes—or worse?
She stumbled home, legs weak with exhaustion, scanning the dim windows of their flat through the spring leaves. The dark squares told her one thing—Max wasn’t home.
Margaret climbed the stairs like a weary cart-horse, head bowed, fingers aching where the bag handles bit into them. She barely had time to press against the wall as a boy flew past—Jake, Max’s friend.
*”Jake?”* she called. *”What’s the rush?”*
He skidded to a stop, hesitated, then bounded back up.
*”Miss Margaret…”* He caught his breath. *”Thought I was seeing things… If Max isn’t here, then he’s with them—”*
*”What’s happened? Where is he?”*
*”I overheard them talking… That girl, Sadie, she dared him. Said if he really loved her, he’d jump from one rooftop to another. They’re filming it, gonna put it online. I came to warn him, but—”* He bolted down the stairs before she could stop him.
Margaret’s fingers unclenched. The bag dropped, groceries spilling. A milk carton burst, white streams trickling down the steps.
A door opened. A man stepped out, taking in the mess. *”You alright? Did someone push you?”*
*”No, it’s—my son’s friend said he’s on the roof of the high-rise, some stupid dare—”* She swayed, nearly slipping in the milk. He steadied her.
*”Stay here. I’ll go.”* He thrust the salvaged groceries into her arms and sprinted downstairs.
She numbly gathered what was left, took it inside, then returned with a bucket and cloth to clean the mess.
*”Miss Margaret, taking up cleaning now?”* a neighbour quipped, cradling her tiny dog.
Too worried to answer, Margaret scrubbed in silence.
Back at the window, she strained to see the distant rooftops. Her eyes burned. Should she run there? What good would it do? Call the police? What if they didn’t believe her?
Restless, she paced, fingers digging into her arms. Her gaze landed on the small paper icon stuck to the fridge—her mother had brought it from church.
The Virgin’s eyes seemed to bore into her, accusing, pitying.
*”Please… Stop them. Save my boy. I can’t lose him—”*
The doorbell nearly stopped her heart.
There stood Max, hood up, head down. The man from earlier stood beside him.
*”Thank God,”* she whispered, gripping the doorframe.
*”All in one piece,”* the man said, nudging Max forward. *”Got there in time. Ever think about your mum? Love’s one thing, but suicide? Try putting that energy into something useful.”*
Margaret pulled Max into a crushing hug.
*”Tomorrow, five o’clock. Wear something you can move in,”* the man told Max.
*”What for?”* Margaret asked warily.
*”Kid’s got too much time and energy. Needs direction. I’ll teach him to defend himself—keep him from idiots like those lads.”*
*”Thank you. Would you like some tea?”*
*”Another time.”*
When he left, Margaret held Max again.
*”I’m sorry, love. I failed you. No father, no one to talk to—”*
*”Mum, stop.”*
*”It’s true. But we’ll get through this.”*
Max sniffed. *”I’m sorry too.”*
*”It’s over now. Go on, get changed. Hungry? I’ll make chips. No? Tea, then.”*
As she filled the kettle, her eyes caught the icon again. The Virgin still watched, sorrowful.
*”Thank you,”* Margaret whispered.
She sliced bread, layered it thick with butter and ham. Max wolfed it down while she watched, torn between relief and dread. *”This time, we got lucky. What about the next? Where do I find the strength?”*
That night, she crept to his door. Moonlight lit his face, one hand tucked beneath his cheek. She crossed him clumsily and tiptoed away.
Max started training with the man—*”Call me Tom,”* he’d said—and began meeting Margaret after work, carrying her bags, talking. Peace returned.
*”Mum, Tom says you’re pretty. Just dress better. You should get a new dress. Shoes, maybe.”*
*”Ashamed of me?”*
*”No. Just… I think he fancies you. Asked about you.”*
So she listened. She wore lipstick now, a touch of mascara.
*”You do look young,”* Max said one day. *”Tom reckons you don’t look a day over thirty.”*
*”Tom says, Tom thinks,”* she mused, half-jealous, half-grateful. *And as the years passed, Margaret learned to trust again—not just in Tom, but in herself, and in the quiet strength of a love that had weathered every storm.
