“What do you need all this for on your own?”
“You’re calling *me* heartless? *Me?* First, you forget about basic necessities, then about common decency, and now you drag your pregnant wife into my house and demand a bigger room! How does that sound to you, eh, son?”
Margaret spoke harshly, but truthfully. She wasn’t attacking—no, she was defending what was hers.
Edward, on the other hand, paced the room as though scouting for weaknesses, his posture betraying not an ounce of guilt.
…It had all begun years ago. Back when Margaret and Henry—God rest his soul—moved into their first flat. No bed, just air mattresses. In time, they scraped together enough for a second flat, for their son. Later, they built a cottage—big enough for two families, imagining grandchildren someday running through the garden and across the porch.
But Henry passed when Edward was just starting university. He left Margaret everything—the fruits of their labour, happy memories, and their son, her last source of warmth and joy.
Edward graduated, moved out, married. Margaret gained a grandson. She was happy—until, a year later, Edward announced his divorce.
“We just didn’t get along. Couldn’t live with her,” he said, as if discussing a stray puppy. “So we agreed… since I’m the father, I gave her the flat. In return, she promised not to demand child support.”
Margaret clutched her head.
“Brilliant. A real knight in shining armour. Empty pockets and all. *You* didn’t even buy that flat,” she scolded.
Even then, she suspected *she* would foot the bill for his grand generosity. And she was right.
Soon, her son returned with a new wife—already expecting. They asked to stay “just for a while.” At first, Margaret didn’t mind.
She tried to be kind—cooking, replacing towels, hanging their laundry. Even leaving extra portions on the stove, just in case Emily fancied a bite.
But gratitude never came.
Emily didn’t work, insisting her condition made it impossible. Margaret bit her tongue, though privately she disagreed.
“At her stage, I’d have worked till at least seven months,” she grumbled to her friend Beatrice. “No home, Edward’s wages are meagre—she *knew* what she was marrying into. She’s just lazy.”
“Be patient, Meg,” Beatrice soothed. “She’s a young thing, expecting…”
“Young thing my foot. I’ve been pregnant—you think *before* you have a baby. She’s not ill, not even morning sickness. Just comfortably settled. Who d’you think they’ll come running to when they can’t afford a pram?”
“Give it time. Once the child’s in nursery, she’ll work…”
“Oh, please. Nursery? They said *a few months*,” Margaret muttered, trying to convince herself.
Cleaning became a battle. Dust coated Edward’s room. Dishes piled up—tea-stained mugs left to blacken with neglect.
Margaret endured. She always observed before acting.
Edward, meanwhile, seemed adrift—vanishing late into work, glued to his phone, or idly rubbing Emily’s belly before escaping to smoke on the bench outside, gossiping with neighbours. Clearly, money wouldn’t magically appear.
“Mum, let’s swap rooms. Ours won’t even fit a crib,” he said one day, as casually as asking for salt.
Margaret faltered. In three seconds, memories flashed—Henry’s smile as they painted walls, chose curtains, called their home their castle.
Now, someone was reducing it to rubble, shamelessly building a nest from the wreckage.
“The baby’s due in four months. You’re here *temporarily*, yes?”
He looked away. Emily turned her head. The truth was clear—this wasn’t temporary. They’d decided.
Edward pressed the issue. Margaret stood firm.
The next clash came a week later. Over breakfast, Edward shrugged:
“Why not sell the cottage? It’d cover a deposit.”
Thank God Margaret was sitting. This wasn’t a request—it was a demand.
“Ed, your father and I *slaved* for that place. He poured his soul into it—barely slept drafting the plans. And I won’t sell it because you’ve no respect for what you’re given.”
“What use is it to *you*? You’re alone. We’d get a mortgage, live separately—easier for everyone.”
Margaret stared. The blow landed squarely where it hurt. She still felt Henry’s absence acutely, some nights weeping into his old shirts.
“I just meant… you can’t manage it alone,” he mumbled.
Silence. Suddenly, Margaret knew: they’d drain her dry. Then what? Once she surrendered the room, the cottage, the flat?
Nothing good. Edward would keep squandering what others had bled for. She’d be left to endure.
No. This ended now.
“You’ve three days to leave,” she said, voice icy. “Wherever you like. Take the pregnancy, the crib, the mortgage. Enough.”
The silence stretched—through the month, no calls, no texts.
She slept better. No slamming cupboards, no complaints about Emily’s lost belongings.
But mornings grew heavier.
The kitchen stayed empty. Milk curdled unused. No need to cook. The telly gathered dust.
Fridays, Margaret visited the cottage. Snow lingered, but sunlight warmed the earth. Stepping inside, her heart leapt at the scent of timber and dust—and Henry’s voice hung in the air:
“We’ll live here someday, Meg. Maybe with grandchildren.”
For hours, she sat on the porch bench, recalling their debates—shutters to paint, whether to uproot the apple tree. He’d insisted they keep it.
Now, perhaps, that tree alone would still bear fruit.
Neighbour Agatha stopped by. “Saw your lot recently. Ed’s labouring on a site. Living with Emily’s friend now. Belly’s showing.”
Margaret nodded, gazing skyward. She’d no desire to pry. *”Their lot…”* She almost laughed. When had her son become a stranger?
That evening, she dug out an old album—a photo of Edward on Henry’s shoulders, paint-smeared and laughing. Another at graduation: suit loose, face solemn, eyes hopeful.
He’d always wanted to be strong. She remembered him at five, shielding a puppy from boys with fireworks—knees shaking, but standing firm. Then Henry arrived. Her boy had been *good* then. Life had been simple.
Her fingers hovered over the phone. She longed to text him—*I love you, I’m here*—but not to *build* his life for him. Not to lay a bridge he’d coast across till retirement. She deleted the draft.
He must do this himself. Or fail. His path now.
…Another month passed. Margaret was peeling potatoes when the landline rang—the heavy, corded one. Her chest tightened. Only the older generation used these, usually for bad news.
“Hello?” she ventured.
“Margaret? It’s Helen. Emily’s friend’s mother. We’ve not met, but… your son’s here. There was an accident. Don’t worry—just a broken arm.”
Helen’s voice was kind but weary. Clearly, she was tolerating, not welcoming.
“Sorry to call, but he needs help. He’s not working, and Emily… well, she needs care too.”
Within the hour, Margaret was on a bus—a container of chicken and rice, orange juice (his favourite) in her bag.
Helen met her at the door—a weary woman in a dressing gown, shadows under her eyes.
“He’s in the parlour. Emily’s there too. Just… brace yourself.”
Edward looked worse than ever. Gaunt, greasy-haired, arm in plaster. Eyes once bright now dull as fogged streetlamps. Emily hunched on a stool, arms wrapped around herself.
“Hi,” he croaked.
Margaret nodded, perching on an armchair. Silence. Only the clock’s ticking, counting how long she’d last.
“Didn’t have to come. I’ll manage,” he said, already defensive.
Stubborn. As ever.
“Oh, I see how well you’re managing,” she said. “I came because *I* wanted to. Not for you. For my grandchild. He’s not to blame for his father’s failures.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. Wounded, probably cursing her inwardly.
“Know what real cruelty is?” she continued. “It’s not refusing help. It’s doing *everything* for someone until they stop trying. Then they drown, and drag everyone down with them.”
“Fine. What now, then?” he snapped.
“Get better. Work. *Live.* Stop waiting for miracles.”
He said nothing, shamefaced. She hoped it sank in—not deeply, but enough to crack his stubbornness.
Every maternal instinct screamed to take him home. But sense prevailedShe folded the album shut, her fingers lingering on the cover, and whispered to the empty room, *”He’ll have to learn the hard way.”*
