Margaret woke up late. No need to rush—retired seven years now, no one left to care for. Might as well linger in bed. But something uneasy nagged at her. No reason for it. Life was calm, no troubles in sight. And yet.
She got up, tidied herself, put the kettle on, and glanced out the window. Over the house across the street, the sky blushed crimson, the low winter sun about to rise. So the two-week thaw had finally given way to frost. “Good. I’ll have tea, then pop to the shops,” she thought, lifting the whistling kettle.
The tea warmed her as she sipped. Petite and frail, she’d never put on weight, not even after having her only son. Her husband had been a big man. He’d called her “Little Maggie,” soft and fond. But he’d been gone ten years now.
She raised her cup—then a sharp buzz at the door startled her. Tea sloshed, scalding her thin, age-spotted hand. She nearly dropped the mug. “There it is. Knew something was coming. What next?” Another insistent ring.
Margaret blew on her hand and shuffled to the door, muttering, “Who on earth visits at this hour?” It took her a moment to recognise the burly man in rumpled clothes as her son. “Goodness, how he’s changed,” she gasped. Tom, too, seemed thrown by how much older she looked.
“Guess who’s home, Mum,” he said, snapping into a smile.
“Tom? Why didn’t you call? I wasn’t expecting—” She pressed her face to his chest. He patted her back awkwardly with one arm.
She caught the smell of travel, stale clothes, and something else that made her gut twist. Pulling back, she studied him—the scruffy beard on his puffy face, the dark circles under bloodshot eyes.
“Are you alone? Where’s Emily? The kids?”
“Not happy to see just me, then?” Tom asked, staring past her.
“Don’t be silly. Come in, love.” She stepped aside, letting him haul his duffel bag inside.
Tom scanned the hallway. “Home. Nothing’s changed.”
“On leave in the middle of winter?” she asked, eyeing the bag.
“Later, Mum. I’m knackered.” He hung his jacket.
“Of course. Tea’s still hot.” She hurried to the kitchen, fetching his old mug from the cupboard.
Tom followed, slouching at the table, legs spread, dwarfing the tiny kitchen. She set the tea down.
“Hungry? I’ve got soup. Made it yesterday, like I knew you were coming.” She held her breath.
“Go on, then,” Tom said offhand. “Missed your cooking.” A flicker of a smile.
She fussed with the fridge, reheating the soup, sliding a steaming bowl his way with a hunk of bread. She sat opposite, chin in hand.
“Got anything stronger to go with this?” Tom stirred the soup, not meeting her eyes.
“Don’t keep spirits,” she said stiffly.
She watched him slurp greedily, eyes half-shut like a cat in the sun.
“How’s Emily? The kids—what year are they in now? Why didn’t they come?”
Tom kept eating, deaf to her.
She didn’t need an answer. His face said it all—drinking cost him his marriage. Where else would he go but here? Of course she was glad. Her only boy, home. But the dread inside grew.
He pushed the empty bowl away. She jumped up, refilled his tea, nudged the biscuit tin closer.
“Emily and I split. I’m back for good,” Tom said, staring at the table.
“Well. Rest up, find work. It’ll sort itself.” She busied herself washing up, then sat again.
Tom gulped tea, avoiding her gaze. Finally, he stood.
“Right. I’m bushed. Gonna kip, yeah? We’ll talk later.”
As she scrubbed the bowl, Margaret thought her heart had known—felt him coming. Knew it wouldn’t be easy. When she peeked into the living room, Tom was sprawled on the sofa, telly blaring. She sat beside him.
“Tell me what happened. You left them the flat? That’s decent of you. This is your home too.”
“Nothing to tell. We’re done.” He didn’t turn.
She studied him—older, haunted, a deep line carved between his brows. Lost. Maybe just tired? The trip down from Newcastle was long. She’d never visited—no money, then too afraid.
She remembered him fresh out of uni, announcing he’d move north for work. A new plant needed young engineers. He’d marry, have kids.
The first few years, they’d all visit. Then less often. By lunch, Tom would crack open a beer. Her husband shook his head. Emily frowned.
Once, Margaret asked if he drank much. Emily burst into tears.
“I threatened to leave… He’d stop for three days, then start again.”
Tom brushed off his parents’ concerns. Then stopped visiting entirely. Calls got rare—too busy, new flat, no time or money to travel. If she asked about drink, he’d snap and hang up.
Margaret sighed. No use dwelling—shop run first. Let him rest. But when she returned, arms aching with bags, Tom was gone.
She peeked in his room. His duffel was there. She itched to see what he’d brought—how much he’d made of himself. But no, that wasn’t right. No presents either—too hard for him. She didn’t need things.
He came back late, clearly drunk. Fumbled at the door, dropped something. “Ran into old mates, maybe? One might help him find work,” she hoped.
“Had a few, Ma. Don’t nag.” He swayed, waved her off, and stumbled to bed. His snores soon rattled the room. She watched him, arms flung wide, and ached for him.
At breakfast, Tom avoided her eyes. Skipped food, gulped tea, asked for more.
“What’s the plan?” She sat across from him. “I won’t have drinking here. Straight up.”
“Gonna chuck me out?” He shoved the cup away.
She flinched. The scalded hand throbbed like it was fresh.
“Forgot the flat’s half mine?” His red eyes locked onto hers.
Margaret blinked fast. Remembered badgering her husband to put Tom on the deed. He’d refused, but she insisted. Their only son—how could they leave him nothing?
Tom drained his tea and left. Each day, he’d claim job hunting, come home late and soused. She’d stand by the window after he passed out, staring at the city lights. What now? Knew it’d end badly for them both. Tossed till dawn, woke headachey, blood pressure soaring.
But that was just the start. Tom brought drinking mates home. One, she could handle—wait till he passed out, shoo the guest out. Groups were worse. The flat reeked of booze and sweat. Mornings, she’d scrub the kitchen, swallowing tears.
Talking did nothing. He’d brush her off—once, he even raised a hand. Big like his dad—how could she stop him? She went to the neighbour, ex-police. Asked for advice.
“Could call it in. They’d hold him overnight. Comes back angrier. No job? What’s he drinking on?”
“Steals from my purse. I hide it now. Found my wedding ring, my earrings—sold them. Too late to stop him. God forgive me—I’m so tired.” She burned with shame.
“Hang in there, love. He’ll slip up—get nicked for theft. That’s when he’ll see jail time. Till then… If it gets bad, scream for me.”
Easy to say—”wait.” But how, with the stink and filth, strange drunk men lurking? She stopped cooking—they’d raid the fridge. Left them bread and tinned stuff. Went half-starved herself.
Who’d help? Nights, she sobbed, praying God take her to her husband. Better dead than this nightmare. Never dreamed she’d end like this—hungry, weeping, her own son robbing her. A stranger in her home.
When had he turned? Why? He’d been bright, kind. They’d been so proud. Thank God his dad didn’t live to see this. Hated drunk men.
Then Tom brought a woman home—thick makeup, cheap clothes. “Lucy,” he said. “We’re getting married.”
Margaret knew at once—she was like him. They drank together, fought, even hit each other. She’d huddle in the dark, waiting for the storm to pass. Too scared to interfere—might turn on her. Lucy cleaned up mornings. Small mercies.
One night, after a row, Margaret dozed off—only to wake to handsMargaret prayed silently in the dark, her heart heavy with grief for the son she once knew, and the life she’d lost to his ruin.
