**Diary Entry – 12th December**
I rose late this morning—no need to rush. Seven years retired, no one left to care for, so why not linger in bed? Yet, something gnawed at me. No reason for it, really—life’s been quiet. But there it was.
After washing up, I filled the kettle and glanced out the window. The sky over the terraced houses opposite glowed crimson; the low winter sun would soon rise. Good. The fortnight’s thaw had finally given way to frost. *Tea first, then the shops,* I thought, pulling the whistling kettle off the hob.
The tea warmed me as I sipped, hands cupped around the mug. Small, slight—even after bearing my only son, I never filled out. My husband had been a broad man. He’d called me *Petite*, *Poppy*. Ten years gone now.
A sharp buzz at the door startled me—tea sloshed, scalding my thin, age-spotted hands. I barely kept hold of the mug. *There it is. Trouble. Knew it.* Before I could steady myself, the buzzer sounded again, impatient.
Muttering, I shuffled to the door. “Who on earth calls this early?” Then—oh. Towering in the frame, unshaven, wearing a rumpled coat, was my son. *How changed he is.* Edward—no, *Eddie*—seemed equally thrown by the sight of his ageing mother.
“Welcome your guest, Mum,” he said, finally grinning.
“Eddie? Why didn’t you call? I wasn’t expecting—” I pressed into his chest. He patted my back awkwardly with one arm.
Road dust, stale fabric, something else—something sharp—clung to him. I stepped back, studying him: the stubble, puffy eyes, the weight of exhaustion.
“You alone? Where’s Lisa? The girls?”
“No welcome just for me?” His gaze drifted past me.
“Course I’m glad. Come in, love.” I stepped aside, letting him haul his duffel bag inside.
“Home. Nothing’s changed.”
“Visiting in winter? On leave?” My eyes flicked to the bag.
“Later, Mum. Knackered.” He hung his jacket, filling the narrow hall.
“Right, of course. Tea’s still hot—” I hurried to fetch his old mug, the one with the chipped rim.
He sprawled at the kitchen table, knees wide, dominating the cramped space. I set the tea down.
“Hungry? I’ve stew. Made it yesterday—”
“Go on then.” He shrugged. “Missed your cooking.” A faint smile.
I reheated the stew, ladled a steaming bowl, and placed it before him with the heavy spoon his father had liked, a thick slice of bread beside it.
“Got anything stronger to go with it?” He stirred, not meeting my eyes.
“Don’t keep spirits,” I said stiffly.
I watched him eat—ravenously, noisily, like a tabby cat lazing in a sunbeam. “How’s Lisa? The girls? Which year are they in now? Why didn’t they—?”
He ate on, deaf to me.
I didn’t need answers. The drink had him. His wife had thrown him out. Where else would he go but here? Of course I was glad. My boy, home. But the dread in my gut only coiled tighter.
He pushed the empty bowl away. I refilled his tea, nudged the biscuit tin closer.
“Lisa and I split. I’m staying.” Still, he wouldn’t look at me.
“Alright. Rest first. Find work. It’ll sort itself.” I busied myself with the dishes, then sat opposite.
He gulped the tea, staring past me. Then stood abruptly.
“Right. Need a kip. We’ll talk later.”
As I scrubbed the bowl, I thought: *My heart knew. Knew he’d come.* And knew, too, this wouldn’t be easy.
When I peeked in later, he was sprawled before the telly. I sat beside him.
“Tell me what happened. Left them the flat? Good man.”
“What’s to tell? It’s done.” He wouldn’t turn his head.
I studied him—older, eyes hollow, a deep crease between his brows. Lost. Maybe just tired. The trip from Sheffield’s a slog. I’d never managed to visit—money, then fear, always stopped me.
I remembered his graduation, his announcement: *Off to Sheffield with mates. New factory, good prospects.* Ambition had burned in him then. Marriage, a daughter. For years, they’d visited. Then less. By lunch, he’d crack open a bottle. His father would shake his head; Lisa would wince.
Once, I’d asked if he drank often. She’d wept. *Promised to stop. Lasted three days.*
He’d brushed off our worries. Stopped visiting altogether. Rare calls—*Work’s mad. New flat. Renovations.* When I dared ask about the drink, he’d hang up.
I sighed. No time to dwell. He was home—I’d need groceries. Let him rest. But when I returned, arms aching from bags, he was gone.
His duffel sat in his room. I nearly checked its contents—*No. Not right.* Made excuses: *No gift? Hard times. Doesn’t matter.*
He stumbled in late, reeking of booze. Fumbled with his coat. *Old mates, then. Maybe they’ll help him find work.*
“Had a few, Ma. Don’t start.” He swayed before me, then lurched to his room.
His snores soon rattled the walls. I peered in—sprawled on the bed, still dressed. My heart ached.
At breakfast, he avoided my eyes, refused food, gulped tea.
“What’s the plan?” I sat across from him. “No more drink. I mean it.”
“Gonna kick me out?” He shoved the mug away.
I flinched—my scalded hand throbbed as if burnt anew.
“Forgot the flat’s half mine?” His bloodshot eyes drilled into me.
I blinked fast. Remembered badgering my husband to add Eddie’s name to the deeds. *Only child, got to secure his future.*
He drained his tea and left.
Days blurred. He’d claim job hunting, return drunk. When he passed out, I’d stare at the city lights, wondering how this would end. Sleep came fitfully; mornings brought headaches, soaring blood pressure.
Then—the drinking mates. One I could manage. Once Eddie snored, I’d usher the stranger out. Groups were worse. The flat reeked of ale and sweat. Mornings, I scrubbed filth, swallowing tears.
Talking failed. He’d wave me off—once, he nearly struck me. Big as his father, how could I stop him?
Our neighbour—ex-copper—listened grimly. “Could call the law. They’d hold him overnight. He’d come back worse. How’s he funding the drink?”
“Steals from my purse. Hid it now. Took my wedding ring, earrings—sold them. I’m worn through.” Shame burned my cheeks.
“Hold fast. He’ll slip up—thieving, maybe. They’ll jail him proper. Till then… if it turns nasty, come straight to me.”
*Easier said.* The flat stank. Strangers lurked. I stopped cooking—they ransacked the fridge. Left them bread, tinned things. Went hungry myself.
Who’d help? Nights, I wept, begging God to take me. Better dead than this. Never dreamt my last years would be hunger, tears, a thief for a son. A stranger in my own home.
Where had I gone wrong? He’d been clever, kind. We’d been proud. Thank God his father didn’t live to see this.
Then—Lucy. A brassy, cheaply dressed woman. “We’re marrying,” he’d said.
Same as him. They drank, brawled. I hid in my room, waiting for the storm to pass. Too scared to interfere. Lucy cleaned up—small mercies.
One night, hands rifled under my pillow. I snapped the lamp on. Eddie didn’t flinch.
“Need cash.”
“Got none—” His glare froze me. Hands shaking, I handed over my last twenty. He didn’t believe me—tore the blanket off, yanked my pockets inside out.
Humiliation like I’d never known. They left—hunting more drink, no doubt. I lay sobbing, heart juddering, skull pounding. A thought slithered in: *Don’t come back. Disappear.* I choked it down. What mother thinks such things?
They didn’t return. At dawn, a knock. Two plainclothes officers.
“Robbery. Night shop. Your son’s in custody.”
“Was Lucy with him?”
“Got awayThe day I outlived my own child, I learned that love and grief walk hand in hand, and some scars never fade.
