Already in my dressing gown, I was brushing my hair when the phone rang. Its shrill tone shattered the late evening quiet of the flat, making me jump. Half nine already.
“Hello?” Silence on the line. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Mum?” Her voice was barely a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard.
“Lucy? What’s happened? You know I hate late calls!” I perched on the edge of the bed, clutching the receiver. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes… I mean, no… Mum, can I come over? Right now?”
Something in Lucy’s tone, a raw fear I’d never heard before, made my heart clench. My daughter never asked for help, always fiercely independent.
“Of course, love. What’s wrong?”
“I’ll explain later. I’m leaving now.”
The line went dead. I stood holding the phone for a moment before setting it down and heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Lucy lives down in Eastbourne, a good hour’s bus ride if the roads are clear. She’d be here soon.
I fetched the nice china cups from the cabinet, the ones for visitors, sliced some lemon, and arranged biscuits on a plate. My hands trembled slightly – a dreadful foreboding wouldn’t lift.
Lucy arrived sooner than expected. When I opened the door, my daughter stood on the step, eyes red, hair dishevelled, clutching a holdall.
“Oh, my girl…” I pulled Lucy into an embrace, feeling her shiver. “Come in, come in. Tea’s ready.”
We sat at the kitchen table. Lucy sipped her tea in silence, occasionally stifling a sob. I waited, not daring to question her. She’d tell me when ready.
“He hits me, Mum,” she finally murmured, so quietly I almost missed it. “It’s not the first time.”
I set my cup down, a slow chill spreading through me.
“Hits you? Michael? What are you saying!”
“Think I’d lie about it?” Lucy jerked her head up. A dark bruise, poorly concealed by makeup, shadowed her eye. “See!”
“Good Lord…” I reached out, but she flinched away.
“Don’t pity me! It’s my own fault. I thought after the wedding… after the baby… he’d calm down. I was a fool, Mum. A proper fool!”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could’ve—”
“What could you have done?” Lucy gave a bitter laugh. “Told me to endure it, save the marriage, stay for the children’s sake? You always said marriage is forever.”
I dropped my gaze. It was true. I’d stayed with Lucy’s father for nearly forty years, enduring his drunken rages, his harshness, his indifference. It was just how things were.
“,Where are the children?”
“At his mum’s. Told them I was visiting Granny.” Lucy wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I don’t want them seeing me like this. Sophie’s only seven, and Ben… he already knows things aren’t right. Yesterday he asked why Daddy shouts at Mummy.”
“What did you say?”
“That Daddy’s tired from work.” Her fists clenched. “Learnt to lie to my own kids. Brilliant, eh?”
I stood and walked to the window. Rain speckled the glass, street lamps casting yellow pools on wet pavement below. How many times had I stood here myself, years ago, waiting? How many times almost left, but stayed… for Lucy’s sake, I’d thought.
“Where is he now, Michael?”
“Home. Drunk and passed out.” Lucy took a shuddering breath. “Mum, I can’t anymore. I won’t have the kids grow up in that house. Remember how scared I was when Dad came home drunk? Hiding in the wardrobe? Praying he wouldn’t yell at me?”
“Your father never raised a hand to us!”
“He bellowed loud enough for the neighbours to bang the walls! And you forgave it, endured it. I thought that was just how men were.” Lucy levelled her gaze. “I won’t have Sophie grow up thinking it’s okay to be walked over.”
I returned to the table and sat opposite my daughter.
“But he’s not always like that. Remember the good early years? He does love you—”
“Mum!” Lucy banged her fist on the table. “This isn’t love! A man who loves you doesn’t hit you! Never! Not ever!”
“But perhaps you provoked him? Said something?”
“*I* provoked him?” Lucy stood, pacing the small kitchen. “Know what upset him tonight? I asked him not to smoke in Sophie’s room. Her cough’s worse at night; the doctor’s worried about asthma. He said: ‘Don’t tell me where to smoke in my own house!’ Then he hit me.”
“But why argue with him? Couldn’t you just—”
“Mum! Hear yourself!” Lucy stopped, staring at me hard. “You’re making excuses for a man beating your daughter!”
I was stunned. I wasn’t excusing him, just trying to understand. All my life, preserving peace was paramount. The man works, gets tired, needs rest at home. The woman creates that peace, yields, doesn’t contradict.
“I’m not excusing him. Only… perhaps try once more? Talk it out?”
“I did. After the first shove, I sat him down. Told him it hurt me inside and out. He apologised, promised never again. Brought flowers, was sweet as pie for a week. Then it started back.”
Lucy went to the window ledge and picked up a framed photo. Her and Michael on their wedding day – young, happy, in love.
“Mum, remember what everyone said when we got engaged? What a decent bloke he was? Hard worker? Didn’t drink, didn’t smoke? Auntie Jean said I’d struck gold.”
“I remember. Still seems true. Maybe he’s under strain? Work troubles?”
“Everyone’s got troubles! My job’s stressful too! My manager’s a nightmare, pay’s late half the time. I don’t smack the kids or *him* over it!”
“The children… They love him.”
“They do. That’s the cruellest part.” Lucy covered her face. “Yesterday, Ben asked me, ‘Mummy, does Daddy put you in time-out like me when you’re naughty?’ He thinks it’s *normal*.”
A familiar ache twisted inside me. That same fearful look Lucy used to have. How she’d hide behind my legs, flinch at loud noises when her father stormed in.
“Where will you go? With the kids, no job… The house is in his name.”
“I’ll find work. Rent somewhere. We’ll manage.” Lucy straightened up. “Keeping the children safe is what matters.”
“What if he won’t give them up?”
“He hits me? He can’t control himself. What sort of father is that?” Lucy moved back towards me. “You know what I realised? The moment a man raises a hand to a woman, he stops being a man. He’s just… some creature unable to solve problems like a human being.”
“Lucy, love, are you sure? Maybe a holiday? Get away, clear your head… Then come back and try afresh?”
She turned to face me, and I saw new resolve in her eyes.
“Mum, I know you mean well. But understand: you can only start fresh if there’s something *to* start. There’s nothing left between us now. Only fear. Lies. And learning to endure.”
“But you loved each other…”
“We did. But love can’t live where there’s fear.” Lucy took my hands in hers. “You taught me my whole life to endure, forgive, keep my
My diary. Sunday, 11:30 PM
Margaret Higgins had just slipped on her nightdress and was braiding her hair when the shrill ring shattered the quiet flat. The harsh sound made her jump. Half past nine, read the clock.
“Hello?” Silence on the other end. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Mum?” The voice was faint, as though the speaker feared being overheard.
“Eleanor? What’s wrong? You know I don’t like late calls!” Margaret perched on the edge of the bed, clutching the receiver. “Are you all right?”
“Yes… No… Mum, can I come over? Right now?”
Something in her daughter’s tone made Margaret’s heart clench. Eleanor never asked for help, always managing independently, proud of her self-sufficiency.
“Of course, come. What’s happened?”
“I’ll explain later. I’m leaving now.”
A dial tone. Margaret stood holding the silent phone, then set it down and went to put the kettle on. Eleanor lived in the next neighbourhood over, forty minutes by bus without traffic. She’d likely arrive within the hour.
Margaret fetched the good china cups reserved for guests from the cupboard, sliced lemon, arranged biscuits on a plate. Her hands shook slightly – a lingering sense of dread.
Eleanor arrived earlier than expected. When Margaret opened the door, her daughter stood on the threshold with red-rimmed eyes and dishevelled hair, clutching a sports bag.
“Oh, my darling girl…” Margaret embraced Eleanor, feeling her tremble. “Inside, quick. Tea’s ready.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Eleanor sipped her tea silently, sniffling. Margaret waited, reluctant to probe. Her daughter would tell her when ready.
“He hits me, Mum,” Eleanor finally whispered, so softly Margaret barely caught it. “Not the first time.”
Margaret set down her cup, a cold weight spreading through her chest. “He hits you? Charles? Don’t be absurd!”
“D’you think I’m lying?” Eleanor snapped her head up. A faint bruise, poorly concealed beneath makeup, darkened beneath her eye. “Here, have a look!”
“Good Lord…” Margaret reached out, but Eleanor flinched away.
“Don’t pity me! It was my fault, I provoked him. Thought he’d change after the wedding, that he’d settle down… Stupid fool, Mum, stupid fool!”
“Why didn’t you tell me before? We could have–”
“What would you have done?” Eleanor gave a bitter laugh. “Told me to endure it, to save the family for the children’s sake? You always said marriage is meant to be forever.”
Margaret lowered her eyes. She had always thought that. She’d endured forty years with Eleanor’s father, not always easy – weathering his drinking binges, his harsh words, his indifference. She’d believed it her lot.
“Where are the children?”
“With his mother. Told them I was staying with Gran.” Eleanor wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Didn’t want them seeing me like this. Alice is only seven, and Ben… he already understands things aren’t right. Yesterday he asked why Daddy shouts at Mummy.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Daddy’s tired from work.” Eleanor clenched her fists. “Learned to lie to my own kids. Well done, eh?”
Margaret stood and walked to the window. Rain drizzled outside, streetlamps casting yellow smears on puddles below. How often had she stood there herself when her husband stayed out or came home drunk and angry? How many times had she thought of leaving, but stayed? For her daughter, as she’d thought then.
“Where is he now?”
“At home. Sleeping. Drank half a bottle and passed out.” Eleanor took a shuddering breath. “Mum, I can’t anymore. I won’t let the children grow up in that house. Remember how I hid in the wardrobe when Dad came home drunk? Prayed he wouldn’t shout at me.”
“Your father never raised a hand to us!”
“Shouted enough to make the neighbours bang on the wall though. And you forgave him, put up with it. I thought that was just how men were.” Eleanor looked directly at her mother. “I don’t want Alice growing up believing letting a man degrade you is normal.”
Margaret returned to the table and sat facing her daughter. “But he’s not always like this. I remember how well you two got on those first years. He loves you…”
“Mum!” Eleanor slammed a fist on the table. “This isn’t love! A loving man doesn’t hit a woman! Ever! No excuses!”
“But, did you… upset him somehow?”
“I upset him?” Eleanor stood, pacing the small kitchen. “Know what ‘upset’ him this time? I asked him not to smoke in the children’s room. Alice coughs at night; the doctor said she might develop asthma. He yelled, ‘Don’t tell me where to smoke in my own house!’ and smacked me.”
“Must you argue? Couldn’t you have been more gentle…?”
“Mum, listen to yourself!” Eleanor stopped, staring. “You’re defending the man hitting your daughter!”
Margaret flinched. She wasn’t defending, just trying to understand. Her lifelong belief was that peace in a family must be kept at all costs. The man works, tires, needs calm at home. The woman creates that calm, yields, doesn’t contradict.
“I’m not defending him. But… perhaps try once more? Have a serious talk?”
“I did. After the first time he shoved me, we talked calmly. Explained how it hurt me, inside and out. He said sorry, promised never again. Brought flowers, was on his best behaviour for a week. Then it started again.”
Eleanor returned to the table, picked up a photo frame from the windowsill. It showed her and Charles on their wedding day – young, happy, in love.
“Remember what the neighbours said when we moved in, Mum? Said he was a decent lad, hard worker, didn’t drink much or smoke. Everyone thought I’d done well.”
“I remember. Still do. Maybe he’s got troubles now? Problems at work?”
“Everyone has problems!” Eleanor slammed the photo down. “My job’s stressful too, boss is useless, pay’s late sometimes. Doesn’t mean I take it out on the kids or my husband!”
“The children… what about them? They love their father.”
“They do. That’s the worst part.” Eleanor covered her face with her hands. “Yesterday Ben said, ‘Mum, does Daddy punish you when you’re naughty, like he does me?’ See? He thinks it’s normal!”
Margaret felt something wrench inside. Yes, she remembered that fear in her daughter’s young eyes when her father came home angry. How Eleanor hid behind her, flinched at sudden noises.
“Where will you go? With the children, no job… The house is in his name.”
“I’ll find work. Rent a room. Manage somehow.” Eleanor straightened up. “The children must be safe.”
“What if he won’t let you take them?”
“He hits his wife, can’t control himself. What sort of father is that?” Eleanor stood, walking to the window. “Know what I realised? When a man hits a woman, he stops being a man. He becomes something… else. Can’t solve things properly.”
“Eleanor, shouldn’t you think it through? Perhaps get away for a break… Then come back fresh?”
Her daughter turned. Something new shone in Eleanor’s eyes – a resolve Margaret hadn’t seen before.
“Mum, I know you mean well. But understand: you only start fresh when there’s something *to* start. There’s nothing left for us. Only fear, lies, and learning to put up with it.”
“But you loved each other…”
“Loved. But love can’t live where fear does.” Eleanor returned to the table, taking her mother’s hands. “You taught me all my life to endure, forgive, never make a fuss. I want to teach my children different – to stand up for themselves, not be walked over, respect themselves.”
Margaret looked at her daughter and suddenly saw not the little girl she’d tried to shield all her life, but a woman, grown, knowing her own mind.
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“I am. Terribly.” Eleanor squeezed her mother’s fingers. “But I’m more afraid of staying. Afraid one day he’ll hit not just me, but the
I finished the diary entry with a trembling hand, knowing my silence all those years made me complicit, but tonight, helping Jennifer break free was a start, and I vowed to my dear diary, never again would a call or a cry go unanswered in my family, not even past nine.
