The phone shattered the silence after dusk, a piercing sound like snapping twigs. Margaret Peterson stood frozen, nightgown twisted in her hands, braid half-finished. Ten-thirty glowed on the clock face. “Hello?” A fragile tremor, barely audible, whispered back. “Mum?” “Eleanor?” Margaret sank onto the bed’s edge, the receiver cold. “Eleanor, what’s wrong? You know I dislike late calls. Are you alright?” “Yes… No… Mum, can I come over? Now?” Desperation laced her daughter’s voice, squeezing Margaret’s heart. Eleanor never pleaded. “Of course, love. What happened?” “Later. I’m leaving now.” A hollow dial tone echoed. Margaret moved numbly, filling the kettle, her thoughts a storm swirling in the dark kitchen. Eleanor lived the next borough over; forty minutes by bus without traffic. An hour, perhaps. She fetched the floral wedding-gift cups and saucers, sliced lemon, arranged biscuits on a willow-pattern plate. Her hands trembled slightly; a grey foreboding settled in her bones like damp.
Eleanor arrived too soon. On the doorstep, hair wild, eyes raw and swollen, she clutched a duffel bag. “Oh, my girl…” Margaret pulled her close, feeling the shuddering breath against her shoulder. “Come in, come in. Tea’s steeping.” They sat at the scrubbed pine table. Eleanor sipped in silence, occasional hitches breaking the quiet. Margaret waited, dreading the words. “He hits me, Mum.” The whisper barely reached her. Margaret’s teacup clattered. “Andrew? Hits you? Surely not!” “D’you think I’m lying?” Eleanor jerked her head up. A faded, poorly concealed bruise shadowed her cheekbone. “Look!” “Good lord…” Margaret reached out, but Eleanor flinched away. “Don’t pity me! It’s my fault. I thought… after we wed… he’d settle. Foolish!” “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We—” “What could you have done?” Eleanor’s bitter laugh scraped the air. “Urged patience? Saving the family? For the children? You always said marriage was once and for life.”
Margaret dropped her gaze. It was true. Forty years with Eleanor’s father, weathering his rages, his absences, his silences. She thought it duty. “The children. Where are they?” “At his mother’s. Said I was visiting Gran.” Eleanor wiped her nose. “Can’t have them see me like this. Alice is only seven, Paul… he senses things. Asked yesterday why Daddy shouts at Mummy.” “What did you say?” “Told him Daddy’s job is hard. Taught them deception. Brilliant?” Margaret stood, drawn to the rain-streaked window. Amber haloes swam on wet pavement outside. How often had she stood here, waiting, listening for angry footsteps? How often had the duty-bound thoughts drowned out escape? “Where is he now?” “Home. Sleeping it off.” Eleanor sucked in a jagged breath. “Mum, I can’t. The children… our home. Remember how scared I was? Hiding in the wardrobe when Dad came home… shouting?” “Your father never raised his hand!” “Only his voice, loud enough for Sheffield to hear! And you forgave, always. I thought it normal.” Eleanor stared at her mother. “Alice cannot grow up thinking she must endure this.”
Margaret returned to the table, facing her. “But he isn’t always awful. Those first years…” “Mum!” Eleanor slammed a fist on the wood. “This isn’t love! A real man doesn’t strike his wife! Ever!” “But if you angered him—” “Angered him? Tonight? I asked him not to smoke in Alice’s room. The doctor suspects her cough might be asthma starting.” Eleanor stood, pacing the tiny kitchen. “He said, ‘Don’t tell me where to smoke in my own house!’ Then he hit me.” “Perhaps you didn’t need to argue? Could’ve been softer…” “Listen to yourself! You’re defending him!” Margaret recoiled. Defending? No. Seeking reason in the storm, clinging to the belief that women forgave, smoothed things over. Men worked hard, needed peace. “I didn’t mean that. Perhaps… try once more? Talk seriously?” “I did. After the first shove. Calmly I spoke. Said it tore my soul as well. He apologised. Flowers. Sweet as treacle for a week. Then… it began again.” Eleanor picked up a framed photo from the sill. Their wedding day – young, radiant, Andrew’s arm around her waist. “Remember Mrs. Higgins from the terrace? Said he was ‘a good’un’. Steady job. Didn’t drink. Everyone cooed over my catch.”
“Aye. Perhaps… pressures at work?” “Who hasn’t pressures?” Eleanor set the photo down hard. “My job’s a strain too! Boss is a berk. Wages late. Doesn’t mean I batter my family!” “The children… they adore their dad.” “That’s the knife-twist.” Eleanor covered her eyes. “Paul asked yesterday, ‘Mum, does Daddy put you on naughty step like me?’ He thinks it normal!” Margaret felt the world tilt. She remembered that exact flinch in Eleanor’s childhood eyes, the fluttering shadows behind her skirts. “Where will you go? With children, no job… The house is his.” “Find work. Rent a bedsit. Manage. Somehow.” Eleanor straightened. “The children must feel safe.” “But what if he won’t let them go?” “Hits me? Can’t control himself. What father is that?” Eleanor stood by the dripping window. “Know what I learned? When he lifts a hand, he stops being a man. Becomes… a creature solving problems only with rage.”
“Eleanor, please… Perhaps a holiday? Clear heads… return fresh?” Eleanor turned. A new fire burned in her eyes – fierce, resolute. “Mum, you mean well. But ‘fresh’ needs something alive to restart. We have only fear, lies… the habit of endurance.” “But you loved him once?” “Loved? Yes. But fear smothers love.” Eleanor took Margaret’s hands. “You taught me endure, forgive, keep sweet. I want my children to learn different: defend themselves, demand respect.” Margaret saw then, not her little girl, but a woman forged in fire. “You’re not afraid?” “Terrified,” Eleanor squeezed her fingers. “But I fear staying more. Fear his fist finding Alice. Fear her choosing a brute because she thinks it love.”
They sat linked by trembling hands. The rain strengthened, drumming on glass. “Stay here,” Margaret breathed. “Until you find your place.” “Truly?” Eleanor’s eyes brimmed with fragile hope. “Truly. Bring the children. We’ll fit.” Margaret rose, took milk from the fridge. “Cocoa? Still your favourite?” “Yes.” Eleanor managed a ghost of a smile. “Mum… that old rule: ‘Never call after nine’? Why?” Margaret poured milk into a pan. “Late calls bring ill tidings. Or so I thought. Seems… sometimes it’s just the beginning.” “Of what?” “A life that’s truly your own.” Eleanor hugged her from behind. “Thank you. For not
Margaret Davies had just pulled on her dressing gown and began plaiting her hair when the telephone screamed through the quiet flat, startling her. The clock read half nine. “Hello?” Crackling silence met her. “Who’s there?” “Mum?” The voice slipped weakly down the line, as though afraid of being overheard. “Emily? What’s wrong? You know I hate calls this late!” Margaret perched on the bed’s edge, gripping the receiver. “Are you alright?” “Yes… No… Mum, can I come over? Right now?” Something in her daughter’s tone clenched Margaret’s heart. Emily never sought help, prided herself on coping alone. “Of course, come. But what happened?” “Later. I’m leaving.” A dead tone buzzed. Margaret stood clutching the phone before setting it down to boil the kettle. Emily lived the next borough over, forty minutes by bus without delays. She’d arrive within the hour. Margaret fetched the fine china cups reserved for guests, sliced lemon, arranged biscuits on a plate. Her hands trembled lightly – a cold dread tightening its grip. Emily appeared earlier than expected, her face tear-streaked and hair wild at the doorstep, clutching a duffel bag. “Oh, my love—” Margaret embraced her, feeling the shaking. “Come in, quick. Tea’s ready.”
They settled at the kitchen table. Emily sipped her tea in silence, shoulders hiccuping. Margaret waited, holding her questions. “He hits me, Mum,” Emily finally whispered, so faintly Margaret strained. “Not the first time.” Margaret set her cup down, ice flooding her chest. “Hits you? Andrew? What are you saying?” “Think I’m lying?” Emily jerked her head up. A faint bruise, poorly concealed by makeup, bloomed beneath her eye. “See?” “Good Lord—” Margaret reached out, but Emily pulled away. “Don’t pity me! I walked into it. Thought marriage would change him… I’m a fool.” “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We—” “What could you do?” Emily’s bitter laugh hung sharp. “Urge patience? Save the family for the children’s sake? Always said marriage was ‘for better or worse’.” Margaret stared at her hands. She had believed that – endured forty years with Emily’s father through the shouting and indifference, accepting it as duty. “Where are the children?” “At his mother’s. Said I was visiting Gran.” Emily wiped her eyes roughly with her sleeve. “Can’t let them see me like this. Maisie’s only seven, Paul… he understands too much. Asked why Dad yelled at me yesterday.” “What’d you say?” “Told him work tired him out. Wonderful liar, aren’t I?” Margaret rose, drifted to the window. Rain slicked the streets, lamplight pooling yellow in the puddles. How often had she stood there, waiting for a husband who came home drunk and angry? How often considered leaving, but stayed? For Emily, she’d told herself. “Where is he now?” “Home. Asleep. Drank himself unconscious.” Emily sucked in a ragged breath. “I can’t anymore, Mum. Won’t raise the kids in that fear. Remember hiding in the wardrobe when Grandad roared?” “He never raised a hand!” “He yelled loud enough for walls rattling! And you forgave, endured. I thought all husbands were like that. Maisie won’t learn men can humiliate women.” Margaret returned to the table. “But he isn’t always so? Remember your first years? He loves you—” “Mum!” Emily slammed her fist down. “This isn’t love! A loving man never strikes a woman!” “Did you anger him somehow?” “I angered him? Know how? Asked him not to smoke in Maisie’s room. Doctor suspects asthma. And he said, ‘Don’t tell me what to do in my own house!’ Then slapped me.” “Must you argue? Could’ve been softer—” “Hear yourself?” Emily froze, eyes locking onto her mother. “Excusing him for beating your daughter!” Margaret floundered. Not excusing, just seeking reasons. Always believed a wife fostered peace at any cost – man works, exhausts, needs calm. Woman yields, silences herself. “Not excusing. Only… perhaps try again? Talk properly?” “I tried. After the shove, I reasoned calmly. Said it hurt soul-deep. He apologized, promised flowers for a week. Then it restarted.” Emily picked up a framed photograph from the windowsill – her and Andrew on their wedding day, hopeful and beaming. “Recall what neighbours said moving in? Good lad, hard worker. Everyone envied my catch.” “Remember. Troubles at work, perhaps?” “Everyone has troubles! My job stresses me, idiotic boss, late wages. I don’t beat the family!” “The children… they love their father.” “They love him. That’s the horror.” Emily covered her face. “Yesterday Paul asked, ‘Mum, does Dad punish you like me when you’re naughty?’ He thinks it normal!” Cold understanding shuddered through Margaret. Yes, she recalled that fear in young Emily’s eyes, the flinching. “Where will you go? Children, no job… House is in his name.” “Find work. Rent a room. Manage. Main thing is keeping the children safe.” “If he won’t let them go?” “Abuses me, so he’s unfit. A man who hits ceases
As the first cold breaths of dawn slipped through the curtains, Marina Ivanovna watched the grey light slowly reclaim the familiar shapes of her room, the new day heavy with unspoken tasks but achingly precious for the fragile sense of peace it held inside its first fragile breaths.
