**The Last Sacrifice**
“Mum, I need to talk to you.”
“What an ominous way to start,” Irene remarked, eyeing her son with worry.
Handsome, bright—he’d always been a good lad, never given her trouble. But then came Year Eleven and his first heartbreak. Skiving off school, grades dropping. She tried talking sense into him. Turned out, the girl fancied another bloke—one with wealthier parents.
No matter how much Irene insisted that first love had nothing to do with money, that it wasn’t about wallets but hearts, her son wouldn’t listen. He’d convinced himself that if *they* had flash cars and fat wallets, the girl would’ve picked him.
He took it so hard, Irene feared for him. She found a therapist to talk some bloke sense into Vincent. It worked—exams passed, uni secured. And, predictably, he fell in love again.
By the end of first year, he announced half his mates had moved out. *He* wanted a flat. Independence.
“How’ll you pay for it? Rent’s steep. I can’t help—you know my salary. You’re eighteen; no more child support from your dad. Or are you dropping out?”
“Dad said he’d help at first,” Vincent shrugged.
“You *spoke* to him? Saw him? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’d’ve talked me out of it. *You* divorced him—not me.”
“And d’you know he changed jobs right after? Made sure his *official* salary was peanuts to cut support. Walked out on you too. Sure he won’t cheat you? I doubt he’ll play Father Christmas forever. Month or two, then an excuse. Then what? Especially with his new daughter. Or will *Lucy’s* parents bankroll you?”
Her mum-radar tingled—he was hiding something. After badgering, Vincent cracked.
“I told Lucy the flat was mine—inherited from Nan. No rent.”
“You *lied*? Her parents won’t help? How’ll you live?”
“Lucy hasn’t told them we’re moving in. Strict, innit? They send her money monthly. Should cover it.”
“Ah, so *she’s* lying too. Scared of the truth but fine sponging off you? Let me guess—you told her your dad’s loaded, so she wouldn’t trade up? But lies unravel, Vincent. What then?”
“Yeah, I said Dad was minted. What else was I meant to do? Money’s the game, Mum. Girls’ll always pick the richer bloke. By the time *I* have cash, I’ll be old.”
“Starting life on lies? Tell her the truth. If she loves you—”
“Enough, Mum. I’m doing it. Shouldn’t have told you. We’re not *marrying*. If it fails, we split. You’re making drama.”
Irene barely slept. Next morning, she tried again—he snapped, stormed out. Home from work, half his things were gone. Her sweet, sensitive boy had *snuck off* without a goodbye.
That night, she rang. Loud music drowned his voice—some “new life” party. Caught a rushed apology, fear of her tears. Small comfort.
She paced, phoned friends. One said she was clingy—”Let him grow up.” Another’s husband had barred their daughter from flying solo. Mum’s verdict? “Your fault. Spoilt him, sacrificed. Could’ve remarried if you’d dressed nicer.”
All true, Irene thought. But what else could she do? He was her world. Now, fork in the road: lose him or herself.
She chose hope.
At first, she called often. Vincent bristled—”Stop checking up!” Visits happened while she worked—evidenced by missing biscuits and jumpers. Two months on, he turned up on her day off. Gaunt, creased shirt. She fed him silently. Packed the fridge’s remains. Knew better than to pry.
Then he said it: “Nan’s living alone. You could move in together… free up a flat for us.”
“Call Nan ‘old’ to her face—she’s sixty-five! This isn’t just money, is it?”
“Yeah. Lucy’s pregnant.”
“*What*? No protection?”
“Lucy says pills are bad. Nan’s okay with it.”
“*Again*—deciding without me? Which flat’s it this time?”
“Nan’s is too small. Damp. You’d be better together—”
She bit back rage. Promised to “think.” After he left, she surveyed her home. *Her* life. Now Nan’s lodger?
Mum called: “Not thrilled, but we’ll manage. Cleared the small room for you—*my* telly stays in the big one.”
Irene cried, then numbly agreed. Moved in, even. Oddly… relieved. Nothing left to take. Her *last* sacrifice.
Now she saw it: *Lucy says, Lucy wants*… Why *her* sacrifice? Lucy’s parents—blissfully unaware?
A cop friend dug up Lucy’s dad: divorced, drunk, shrugging, “She’s clever—she’ll manage.”
No allies there.
Six months later, baby Daisy arrived. Irene visited *her* flat—filthy, Lucy unfazed. She left fast.
Vincent grew thinner, griping: fights, money demands. Then—”We’re divorcing. Lucy says she’ll keep Daisy unless I sell the flat. *Help*.”
“No. You wanted independence? Solve it. And don’t try dodgy deals—my cop mate’s watching.”
Vincent spat blame, left.
For once, Irene didn’t cave.
Unconditional love? A leash. Give just enough—not *everything*.
