**Diary Entry**
I woke up late today—no rush, really. It’s been seven years since I retired, and there’s no one left to fuss over. Might as well take my time. Yet, for no reason at all, my chest feels tight, uneasy. Why? Everything’s fine, nothing to fret about. And still, here it is.
I got up, washed my face, put the kettle on, and glanced out the window. The sky over the house across the street blushed crimson—the low winter sun would rise soon. So the two-week thaw had finally ended, and the frost was back. “Good. Tea first, then the shops,” I thought, lifting the whistling kettle off the burner.
I poured myself a cup and sipped slowly. Warmth spread through me. Small, slight—even after having my only son, I never filled out. My husband was a big man. He used to call me *Petite, Petal*. But he’s been gone ten years now.
I raised the cup—then a sharp buzz from the door startled me. My hand jerked, tea sloshed, scalding the thin, age-spotted skin. I nearly dropped the cup. “There it is. My gut wasn’t wrong. What now?” Before I could finish the thought, the buzzer rang again, insistent.
I blew on my hand and shuffled to the door, muttering, “Who on earth visits this early?” At first, I didn’t recognise the broad-shouldered man in rumpled clothes. “Good Lord,” I gasped. Edward—now *that* was a shock. He must’ve been just as thrown by how much I’d aged.
“Got a guest, Mum,” he said, snapping out of it with a tired smile.
“Edward? You could’ve called. I wasn’t expecting—” I pressed my face to his chest. He patted my back awkwardly with one arm.
I caught the scent of travel, stale clothes, and something else—something that pricked at my heart. I pulled back, studying him: the unkempt stubble on his puffy face, the swollen bags under bloodshot eyes.
“Just you? Where’s Emily? The baby?”
“Not happy to see me alone?” He stared past me, voice flat.
“Just surprised.” I stepped aside, letting him in. “Come on, love. Get settled.”
He crossed the threshold, dropped a bulky duffel by the door, and scanned the hall.
“Home. Nothing’s changed.”
“On holiday? In *January*?” My eyes flicked to the bag.
“Later, Mum. Knackered.” He shrugged off his coat.
“Right, of course. Tea’s still hot—” I hurried to the kitchen, digging out his old mug from the cupboard.
Edward followed, slouching at the table, legs splayed wide, taking up half the tiny kitchen. I set the mug down.
“Hungry? There’s soup. Made it yesterday—felt like you might come.” I held my breath.
“Go on, then.” He shrugged. “Missed your cooking.” A ghost of a smile.
I fussed with the fridge, reheated a bowl, and slid it to him—thick bread on the side, his dad’s favourite spoon. I sat opposite, chin propped on my hand.
“Anything stronger to go with it?” He shot me a glance, stirring lazily.
“Don’t keep it,” I said sharply.
I watched him eat—noisy, greedy, eyes half-closed like a cat sunning itself on a windowsill.
“How’s Emily? The little one—what year’s she in now? Why didn’t they—?”
He kept eating, ignoring me.
One look told me everything: he was drinking. His wife had kicked him out. Where else would he go? Of course I was glad. My boy, home. But the dread in my chest grew heavier.
He pushed the empty bowl away. I jumped up, refilled his tea, nudged the biscuit tin closer.
“Emily and I split. I’m back for good,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes.
“It’s alright. Rest up, find work. You’ll manage.” I babbled, rinsing the bowl. Then sat again.
He slurped his tea, staring past me. He stood abruptly.
“Right. Shattered. I’ll kip, yeah? We’ll talk later.” He shuffled off to his room.
At the sink, I scrubbed dishes, thinking: *My heart knew. Knew he’d come.* Knew it wouldn’t be easy.
Later, I found him sprawled on the sofa, telly blaring. I perched beside him.
“Tell me what happened. You left them the flat? That’s decent of you. This is your home too.”
“What’s to tell? It’s done.” He didn’t look at me.
I studied him—the deep lines, the hollow stare. A stranger. Maybe just tired? The trip from Manchester’s a long one. I never visited—no money, then too scared.
I remembered his graduation, him announcing he’d move up north for that factory job. Big dreams, quick promotions. Then the wedding, the baby.
First few years, they’d visit. Then less. By lunch, he’d crack open a bottle. His dad would frown. Emily would tense.
Once, I asked if he drank often. She burst into tears.
*”Begged, threatened to leave… He’d swear off it, then start again.”*
He’d brush us off. Stopped visiting altogether. Rare calls—*work’s mad, new flat, too expensive to travel.* If I asked about the drink, he’d hang up.
I sighed. No use sitting. Shops, then. Let him rest.
But when I returned, arms aching with bags, he was gone.
In his room, the duffel sat by the bed. I itched to peek inside—what did he own now? But no. That wasn’t right. I made excuses: no gifts? Hard times. Didn’t matter.
He stumbled in past midnight. Drunk. Fumbled with his shoes, dropped things. *Old mates, maybe? A job lead?*
“Had a few, Mum. Don’t start.” He swayed, waved me off, and vanished into his room.
His snores soon rattled the walls. I crept in—he was sprawled on the bed, fully dressed. My heart ached.
Next morning, he shuffled in, eyes down. Skipped breakfast, gulped two cups of tea.
“What’s the plan?” I sat across from him. “No more drinking. I mean it.”
“Gonna kick me out?” He shoved the mug away.
I flinched—yesterday’s scald throbbed anew.
“Forgot the flat’s half mine?” His bloodshot glare pinned me.
I blinked fast. Remembered badgering his dad to add Edward to the deeds. *Only child. Got to secure his future.*
He left. Every day, same routine: job hunting, he claimed. Came home shattered, reeking of booze.
Then the “mates” started trailing in. At first, just one. I’d wait till Edward passed out, then shoo the straggler out. Worse when it was a crowd. The flat stank of sweat and stale beer. Mornings, I’d scrub the kitchen, swallowing tears.
Talking did nothing. He’d shrug. Once, he raised a hand. Big as his dad—how could I stop him?
I went to Mr. Dawson next door—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. Sold my wedding ring, earrings—missed hiding them. Useless anyway.” Shame burned my cheeks. “Lord help me, I’ve thought—I’m so tired.”
“Hold on. They’ll slip up—get caught thieving. That’s when he’ll get time. Till then… If it gets bad, knock.”
Easy to say *hold on*. How, with drunks crashing about? I stopped cooking—they raided the fridge. Left them bread, beans. Went hungry myself.
Who’d help? Nights, I prayed: *Take me to John.* Better dead than this. Never dreamed my last years would be—hungry, weeping, robbed by my own son. A stranger in my home.
When did he change? He was bright, kind. We were so proud. Thank God John didn’t live to see this. He despised drunk men.
Then Edward brought *her* home—Lucy, caked in cheap makeup. “We’re getting hitched,” he said.
I knew. She was like him. They drank, fought, broke things. I’d hide in the dark, wait for the storm to pass. Too scared to interfere. Lucy sometimes washed up—small mercies.
One night, I dozed off after their row. A hand groped under my pillow—I jolted awake, switched on the lamp. Edward didnShe never saw him again, but the empty space he left behind never stopped aching.
