Margaret woke up late. No need to rush—she’d been retired seven years, and there was no one left to care for. Might as well linger in bed. But something nagged at her, a quiet unease she couldn’t shake. Everything *should’ve* been fine. Yet here she was, restless.
She got up, tidied herself, put the kettle on, and glanced out the window. Over the rooftops, the sky blushed crimson—winter’s weak sun about to rise. The two-week thaw had finally snapped into frost. “Good. Tea, then a quick run to the shops,” she thought, lifting the whistling kettle.
The tea warmed her as she sipped. Petite and slight, she’d never gained weight, not even after her only son was born. Her husband, a broad-shouldered man, used to call her *Mags* or *Maggie-love*. But he’d been gone ten years now.
A sharp buzz at the door startled her. Tea sloshed over her thin, age-spotted hand. She hissed, nearly dropping the cup. “There it is. Knew something was coming.” Another impatient ring.
Margaret blew on her burnt skin and shuffled to the door, muttering, “Who on earth knocks this early?” Then she froze. The man on her step—rumpled coat, tired eyes—was her son. “*Christ*, he’s changed,” she gasped. Christopher, too, seemed thrown by how much she’d aged.
“Surprise, Mum,” he said, forcing a grin.
“Chris? Why didn’t you call? I wasn’t—” She pressed her face to his chest. He patted her back awkwardly.
She caught the scent of travel, stale clothes, and something sharper—alarm prickled in her ribs. Pulling away, she studied him: the stubble, the puffy face, bloodshot eyes.
“Where’s Emily? The baby?”
“Not happy to see just me?” He stared past her, at the hall.
“Course I am! Just—come in, love.” She stepped aside.
He hauled in a duffel bag, scanning the flat. “Nothing’s changed.”
“You on leave? In *January*?” Her eyes flicked to the bag.
“Later, Mum. Knackered.” He shrugged off his jacket.
“Right, right. Tea’s still hot—” She hurried to fetch his old mug from the cupboard.
Chris slumped at the kitchen table, knees sprawled, dwarfing the tiny room. She set the tea down.
“Hungry? I’ve got stew. Made it yesterday, funny that.” She held her breath.
“Go on, then.” He gave a half-smile. “Missed your cooking.”
She reheated the stew, piled his plate high, added a thick slice of bread—the way his dad used to eat—then sat opposite, chin propped on her hand.
“Got anything stronger to go with it?” He stirred the stew, not meeting her gaze.
“Don’t keep liquor,” she said flatly.
She watched him wolf it down, noisy as a contented cat in a sunbeam.
“How’s Emily? The little one—year three now? Why didn’t they come?”
Chris kept eating, deaf to her questions.
His hollow cheeks, the tremor in his hands—she *knew*. His wife had kicked him out. Where else would he go? Of course she was glad he’d come. But the dread in her gut coiled tighter.
He pushed the empty plate away. She jumped up, refilled his tea, nudged the biscuit tin closer.
“Me and Em split. I’m back for good,” he muttered to the table.
“Right. Well. Rest up, find work. It’ll sort itself.” She busied herself washing up, then sat again.
Chris gulped tea, eyes distant, then stood. “Gonna lie down, yeah? We’ll talk later.”
As she scrubbed the pan, she thought: *My bones knew. Knew he’d come like this.*
————
It only got worse.
Chris left daily, claiming job hunts, but staggered home drunk. She’d lie awake, listening to his snoring, staring at the orange glow of streetlights through the curtains. *Where does it end?*
Then came the “mates”—strangers reeking of lager and fags. She’d shoo them out when Chris passed out, but the flat stank for days. One morning, she found her grandmother’s pearl earrings gone.
Her neighbour, an ex-bobby, sighed when she begged for advice. “Could call the cops, but they’d only hold him a night. Where’s he getting the money?”
“Stealing from *me*.” She flushed with shame. “I hide my purse now, but—”
“Hold tight. He’ll slip up proper one day. Till then… shout if he gets violent.”
*Easy for you to say*, she thought, scrubbing vomit off the sofa.
Then *she* arrived—Lucy, a brassy blonde in too-tight jeans. “We’re getting married,” Chris announced. They drank, brawled, made up. Margaret hid in her room, trembling.
One night, a hand fumbling under her pillow woke her. Chris loomed, eyes black with need. “Gimme cash.”
“None left—” His grip on her wrist cut her off. She handed over her last twenty quid. He ripped the blanket away, checking for more.
Humiliation burned hotter than the tea scalding her lap that first morning.
————
They vanished for three days. Then a knock: two detectives. Chris had been caught robbing an off-licence.
“Was Lucy with him?” Margaret asked.
“Got away.”
Relief and grief twisted in her chest. Prison. At least he’d sober up.
The neighbour urged her: “Change the deeds. Kick him off. Two years inside won’t fix *that*.”
She did. But guilt gnawed at her—wishing her own child dead.
When his sentence ended, Chris never came home. Just… faded.
Alone, Margaret wept for her husband, her boy, herself. The tears washed nothing clean.
