**Diary Entry**
I trudged home, exhausted and drained. One hand clutched my handbag, the other a bag of groceries I’d picked up on the way. My legs wobbled beneath me—I could’ve collapsed right there on the pavement. But Max was waiting for me at home. My son. The only reason I kept going. Without him, I’d have given up on this wretched existence long ago.
Some people are born with silver spoons in their mouths—life hands them everything effortlessly. Others, like me, seem destined for endless suffering. I met him at a mate’s birthday party in Year 11—an older lad, two years my senior. He seemed so worldly, so bold, unbothered by rules. I fell hard and fast.
I wasn’t a beauty, but back then, I had that youthful charm—soft features, chestnut hair, a slender frame with curves in the right places. That January, Mum was hospitalised with pneumonia, leaving the flat to me—and him. That’s when it happened, the way it does for naïve girls of seventeen. I believed his sweet nothings, his promises of love.
When I realised I was pregnant, I ran straight to him.
*”What’s it got to do with me? Look at me—I’m no dad. Find yourself some other mug,”* he sneered—then vanished, as suddenly as he’d appeared.
What now? Who could I turn to? Days dragged on, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mum.
Spring came, time for lighter clothes. I stood before the mirror, struggling to fasten my jeans over my thickening waist. My blouse gaped at the chest.
*”You’ve put on weight,”* Mum said behind me. I flinched. *”Let’s see—”* She spun me round, gasped, and pressed a hand to her throat. *”Whose is it? How far along? Why didn’t you tell me?”*
She screamed, hurled insults, chased me through the flat with a tea towel. Later, we sat on the sofa, clinging to each other, sobbing. Too late for an abortion.
I finished school, skipped uni. Late September, I gave birth to a sweet-faced boy—with *his* features stamped all over him.
When Max was older, Mum got me a job at the council housing office through a friend. I hated it—endless complaints, threats from residents, headaches. For extra cash, I scrubbed offices and corridors in the evenings. Max needed clothes, nursery fees.
He grew up quiet, never any trouble. I denied myself everything—but he never lacked love, care, or toys.
After he started school, Mum fell seriously ill. Eight months later, she was gone. I took on another cleaning job—washing floors, windows, clearing renovation mess in a nearby office. Came home dead on my feet.
Then adolescence hit. Max turned prickly, withdrawn. Snapped when I asked about school. I knew I had to watch him—too easy to fall in with the wrong crowd. But by evening, I only had energy to scrape together dinner and mutter, *”How was school?”*
Lately, I’d noticed bruises on Max’s arms, scratches on his face. *”Fell in PE,”* he’d say.
Then I saw him with a girl. Nothing wrong, but she looked *off*—oversized black hoodie, baggy trousers, bright pink hair, a nose ring. Maybe she was nice, just a phase. But not all girls dress like that.
I tried talking to Max—he snarled, locked himself in his room. What could I do? Forbid him? Scold him? That’d only make it worse. But my heart ached. Alone all day—what if he made my mistakes? Worse ones?
I stumbled home, squinting through the trees for our lit-up window. Dark panes—Max wasn’t there.
Dragging myself upstairs, head bowed like a tired cart horse, my fingers ached from the shopping bags—I nearly dropped them. Then Liam, Max’s mate, nearly knocked me over rushing past.
*”Liam!”* I called. *”What’s the rush?”*
He skidded to a stop, hesitated—then dashed back up, panting. *”Max isn’t home, is he? Then he’s with *them*—I heard some lads talking. His girl, Tasha, dared him to jump between rooftops. Said if he loves her, he’ll do it. They’re filming it—for social media. I tried to warn him—”*
My bag slipped, groceries tumbling down the stairs. A milk carton split, white rivulets streaking the steps.
A neighbour’s door opened—a man stepped out, saw me frozen, the mess. *”You alright? Mugged?”* He started gathering the shopping.
*”No—my son—they’re on a rooftop—nine-storey—”* I swayed.
*”Stay here. I’ll go,”* he said, thrusting the bags at me before sprinting downstairs.
I numbly cleaned the milk. A nosy neighbour with a yapping dog smirked. *”Cleaning now, love? Paying job?”* I ignored her.
Back home, I stared through the trees at distant rooftops. Should I run there? Call the police? Would they even believe me?
Restless, I paced. A paper icon—Virgin Mary with child—stared from the fridge, a relic from Mum’s church days. Those eyes seemed to pierce my soul—accusing, pitying.
*”Help me. Stop them. Save my boy—”* My plea was frantic, desperate.
The doorbell nearly stopped my heart. There stood Max, hood up, head down—and the neighbour beside him.
*”Alive,”* I whispered, gripping the doorframe.
*”Brought him back in one piece,”* the man said, nudging Max forward. *”Think about your mum next time, eh? Love’s fine, but suicide? Channel that energy better—help her out, she works three jobs.”*
I realised he’d been lecturing Max all the way home. I pulled my son close.
*”Training starts tomorrow, five sharp. Wear something you can move in,”* the man told Max.
*”Training?”* I blinked.
*”Kid’s got energy. Needs direction. Teaching him self-defence—how to handle idiots.”*
*”Thank you. Fancy a cuppa?”*
*”Another time.”*
After he left, I hugged Max tighter. *”I’m sorry, son. My fault—no dad around.”*
*”Mum—”*
*”No, it’s true. You’ve no one to talk to. I failed you.”* Tears spilled.
*”I’m sorry too,”* Max mumbled, voice thick.
*”It’s over now. But go—train with him. Seems decent. A proper man.”*
*”His name’s James,”* Max said.
Later, over tea and buttery toast, I watched Max eat greedily, relief warring with fear. *”Today was close. What next? Where do I find the strength?”*
That night, I crept to Max’s room. Moonlight showed him asleep, hand under his cheek. I crossed him clumsily, shut the door softly.
Max started training with James. Even carried my shopping, walked me home, talked. Peace returned.
*”Mum, James said you’re pretty. Just dress frumpy.”*
*”Embarrassed of me?”* I flushed.
*”No! Just—think he fancies you. Asked about you.”*
So I listened. Wore nicer clothes to work, touched up my lashes.
*”You *are* pretty,”* Max said once. *”James reckons you look under thirty.”*
*”James says, James thinks—”* I teased, secretly pleased. *”Under thirty? They used to say younger.”*
One day, James and I crossed paths on the stairs. I thanked him again.
*”He’s a good lad. Teens do daft things,”* he said. *”Day off tomorrow? Fancy the cinema? All three of us?”*
*”Last time I went, Max was six—a cartoon.”*
*”Sorted. I’ll get tickets.”*
At home, I noticed scrapes on Max’s knuckles. *”Fighting?”*
*”Don’t worry. James taught me. I can handle myself now.”* He hugged me—properly, like a man.
Trouble doesn’t last forever. One day, it smooths over. Peace returns. And love—love comes to those who wait.
