Margaret wakes late. There’s no rush—she’s been retired seven years, with no one left to care for. A lie-in won’t hurt. Yet her chest tightens with unease. Why? Life’s quiet, nothing to fret over. Still, the feeling lingers.
She rises, tidies herself, puts the kettle on, and glances out the window. The sky above the house opposite glows crimson—soon the low winter sun will rise. So the fortnight’s thaw has finally broken. “Good. Tea first, then the shops,” she thinks, lifting the whistling kettle.
The tea warms her as she sips. Petite and slight, motherhood hadn’t softened her edges. Her husband had been a bear of a man. He’d called her “Maggie-love,” “little Maggie.” But he’s been gone ten years now.
The doorbell shrieks. Startled, she sloshes tea onto her thin, liver-spotted hand. The burn stings. “There it is. Knew something was coming.” Before she can steady herself, the bell rings again—long, insistent.
Blowing on her hand, she shuffles to the door, muttering, “Who on earth…?” Then freezes. The broad-shouldered man in rumpled clothes is her son. “How he’s changed,” she gasps. James, too, seems stunned by her衰老.
“Surprise, Mum,” he grins, shaking off his daze.
“James? Why didn’t you—?” She clutches him, breathing in road dust, stale sweat, and something sharper that pricks her heart. Pulling back, she studies him: the patchy beard, puffy face, bloodshot eyes.
“You alone? Where’s Emily? The baby?”
“Not happy to see just me?” His gaze drifts past her.
“Don’t be silly.” She steps aside. “Come in, love.”
He shoulders past, drops a duffel by the door. “Home. Nothing’s changed.”
“On leave? In December?” Her eyes flick to the bag.
“Later, Mum. Knackered.” He hangs his coat.
“Of course. Tea’s fresh—” She bustles to the kitchen, fetches his old mug.
James spreads himself at the table, elbows wide, dominating the tiny space. She sets the tea down.
“Hungry? I’ve got stew. Made it yesterday, somehow knew—”
“Go on, then.” He flashes a tired smile. “Missed your cooking.”
She reheats the stew, serves it with a thick slice of bread, the heavy spoon his dad used. James eats greedily, noisily, like a tomcat in sunlight.
“How’s Emily? Grace—what year is she now? Why didn’t they—?”
He chews, deaf to her.
The truth settles in her gut. The drinking. His wife finally threw him out. Where else would he go? Of course she’s glad he’s here. But the dread coils tighter.
He shoves the empty bowl aside. She refills his tea, nudges forward the biscuit tin.
“Emily and I split. I’m staying.” He won’t meet her eyes.
“It’s alright. Rest up, find work. You’ll sort it.” She takes the bowl to the sink, sits again.
James slurps his tea, stares at the wall. Then stands abruptly. “Gonna nap. We’ll talk after.”
At the sink, she thinks: her heart knew he was coming. This won’t be easy. In the lounge, he’s sprawled before the telly. She perches beside him.
“Tell me what happened. Left them the flat? That’s decent.”
“What’s to tell? It’s done.”
She studies him—the new lines of pain, the lost look. Maybe just tired. The trip from Manchester’s long. She’d never visited, always an excuse: money, fear.
She remembers his graduation, how he’d announced he was moving north for work. A new plant, bright prospects. A wife soon after, then the baby. Those first years, they’d visit. Then the gaps grew. By lunch, he’d always open a bottle. His dad would frown, Emily would wince.
Once, she’d asked Emily how bad it was. The girl wept. “Promises, then three days later…”
James brushed off their concerns. Then stopped coming entirely. Calls grew rare: work, the new flat, no time, no cash. When she dared ask about the drinking, he’d hang up.
Sighing, she grabs her coat. He’s home—she’ll shop proper. But returning with heavy bags, she finds the house empty.
His duffel’s in his room. She aches to peek—what’s he brought? No, that’s wrong. And no gifts? Hard times, alright. She needs nothing.
He staggers in near midnight, fumbling with his keys. She smells the pub on him.
“Just a few, Mum. Don’t start.” He sways into his room.
She peers in later: he’s facedown, still dressed. Her heart twists.
At breakfast, he avoids her eyes, refuses food, gulps tea.
“What’s the plan?” She steels herself. “No drinking here. I mean it.”
“Tossing me out?” He shoves the cup.
Her burned hand throbs anew.
“Forgot the flat’s half mine?” His red-rimmed glare chills her.
She blinks rapidly. Remembers badgering her husband to add James to the deed. “Only child—what if…?”
Each day, he claims job hunting. Returns stinking of whiskey. When he crashes out, she stares at the city lights, sick with certainty: this ends badly.
Then come the “mates”—hulking strangers reeking of ale. She manages single stragglers, but gangs leave the kitchen reeking, counters sticky. Mornings, she scrubs through tears.
Talking’s useless. Once, he raised a hand.
Her neighbor, ex-police, offers grim advice: “Call the cops, he’ll be out in 48 hours. Then what? How’s he funding this?”
“Takes from my purse. I hide it now. Sold my wedding ring last week.” Shame burns her cheeks.
“Wait it out. He’ll slip up—theft, maybe. That’s when they’ll lock him up proper.”
Easy to say. The flat stinks of strangers, stale lager. She’s stopped cooking—they raid the fridge. Lives on toast, grows thin.
At night, she begs God to take her. Better that than this.
She wonders when he broke. He was sweet once—bright, steady. Thank God his father never saw this.
Then the woman arrives: garish makeup, cheap perfume. “Lucy,” he slurs. “We’re getting hitched.”
Lucy’s like him—loud, mean. Their fights shake the walls. Margaret hides in her room. At least Lucy cleans the mess. Small mercies.
One night, she jolts awake—a hand gropes under her pillow. She flicks on the lamp. James doesn’t flinch.
“Cash,” he rasps.
“I’ve none—” His drunk, vacant stare terrifies her. She surrenders her last £20 from her robe. He snatches it, flips the mattress. Checks her pockets.
The humiliation scalds. He and Lucy vanish—for booze, surely. She curls up, weeping, heart hammering. Wishes they’d vanish for good. Then hates herself.
At dawn, a knock: detectives.
A robbery. James and another man caught; others fled.
“Lucy?” Margaret asks.
“Gone.”
Relief and grief crash together. Prison now. But Lucy never returns for her things. Slowly, Margaret reclaims the flat—scrubs, airs it out. The stink lingers.
Two-year sentence. The neighbor urges her to reclaim the flat’s title. “He won’t change. Protect yourself.”
She does. But her heart aches. Hopes prison dries him out. Sends parcels, skips visits.
When his term ends, he doesn’t come home.
Lost, as she’d once wished. Now she prays for forgiveness for that sin. Cries for him, for her husband, for herself. The tears rinse the pain, leave frail hope:
*Maybe he’s alive. Maybe he’s ashamed. Maybe he’s changed.*
