**”What’s It to You?”**
“You call *me* heartless? *Me?* You’re the one who forgot about common decency first, then about all sense of propriety, and now you drag a pregnant girl into my home and demand a bigger room? How does that sound to you, eh, son?”
Laura’s words were harsh but true. She wasn’t attacking; no, she was defending what was hers.
Victor, meanwhile, paced the room like a man scouting for weakness, calculating his next move. His stance made it clear—he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt.
…It had all started long ago. The day Laura and William, God rest his soul, moved into their first flat. No bed, just inflatable mattresses. Over time, they saved for a second flat—for their son. Then they built a cottage. Big enough for two families, so one day grandchildren could play in the garden and on the porch.
But William passed when Victor had just started university. He left Laura with everything—their shared life’s work, happy memories, and their son, her last source of warmth and joy.
Victor graduated, moved out, married. Laura got a grandchild. She was happy. Then, a year later, Victor announced his divorce.
“We just didn’t get along. Couldn’t live with her,” he said, as if discussing a stray dog. “We made a deal—since I’m the father, I gave her the flat. In return, she promised not to go after child support.”
Laura clutched her head.
“Bloody knight in shining armour, aren’t you? Didn’t even pay for that flat yourself,” she snapped.
She’d already guessed *she’d* be footing the bill for his grand gesture. And she was right.
Soon, Victor was back—with a new wife, already expecting.
They asked to stay for a while. Laura didn’t mind. At first.
She tried to be kind. Cooked, changed the towels, hung their laundry. Even left extra portions on the stove in case Emma fancied a bite.
But gratitude never came.
Emma didn’t work, claiming her condition made it impossible. Laura bit her tongue, though she disagreed.
“I’d have worked till seven months, at least,” she complained to her friend Margaret. “No home, Victor’s wages barely cover rent. She knew what she was marrying into. She’s just lazy.”
“Give her some slack, love. She’s pregnant,” Margaret soothed.
“Pregnant, my foot. I’ve been there—you think *before* making a baby. She’s not ill, not even morning sickness. Just cosy where she is. Who’ll they come running to when they can’t afford a pram?”
“Give it time. She’ll go back to work when the kid’s in nursery…”
“Nursery? They said they’d stay *a few months*,” Laura muttered.
Cleaning became a battle. Dust coated Victor’s room. Dishes piled up—tea stains darkened abandoned mugs.
Laura endured. She watched first, acted second.
Victor, meanwhile, vanished into his own world. Out late, glued to his phone or idly rubbing Emma’s belly before sloping off to smoke on the bench outside. Chatting with neighbours.
Money wasn’t magically appearing.
“Mum, let’s swap rooms. Ours won’t fit a cot,” he said one day, casual as asking for the salt.
Laura froze. Memories flashed—wallpapering with William, picking curtains, him calling their home a “fortress.”
Now someone was turning that fortress to rubble, building their nest from the wreckage.
“The baby’s four months off. You’re here *temporarily*, right?”
He looked away. Emma turned her head. The truth was clear—they’d settled in. They’d decided.
Victor tried again. Laura held firm.
The next row erupted a week later. Over breakfast, Victor tossed out:
“Why don’t we sell the cottage? Would cover a deposit.”
Thank God Laura was sitting. This wasn’t a request—it was a demand.
“Victor, your father and I *slaved* for that place. He poured his soul into it. I won’t sell it because you can’t handle what you’re given.”
“What do *you* need it for? You’re alone. We’d get a mortgage, live separately—easier for everyone.”
Laura’s breath caught. She still ached for William, still cried at night.
“I meant… you can’t manage it alone,” he mumbled.
Silence. Laura saw it then—they’d bleed her dry. What would be left when rooms, the cottage, the flat were gone?
Nothing good. Victor would keep handing out what others had earned. Enough.
“You’ve got three days to leave,” she said, ice in her voice. “Take the pregnancy, the cot, the mortgage—*all of it*. I’m done.”
Quiet. So quiet. A month passed without so much as a text.
She slept better. No more slamming cupboards, no complaints about “lost” clutter.
But mornings were harder.
The kitchen stayed empty. Milk went sour from disuse. No need to cook. The telly gathered dust.
Every Friday, Laura drove to the cottage. Snow lingered, but sun warmed the earth. Stepping inside, her heart leapt at the smell of wood and dust—William’s ghost in the air.
*”We’ll grow old here, Luv. Maybe with grandkids.”*
She sat for hours on the porch, remembering painting the shutters, arguing over the apple tree—*keep it*, he’d insisted.
Now it was the only thing left to bear fruit.
She ran into Tammy, a neighbour.
“Saw your lot recently. Victor’s labouring on a site. Staying with Emma’s mate. Bump’s showing.”
Laura nodded, said nothing. She wouldn’t pry—into *someone else’s* family. *”Someone else’s…”* When had her son stopped being hers?
That night, she dug out an old album. Victor on William’s shoulders, paint-smeared and laughing. Later, graduation—ill-fitting suit, eyes full of hope.
He’d always wanted to be strong. She remembered him at five, shielding a puppy from lads with fireworks. Knees knocking, but he stood firm. William arrived just in time. How good he’d been. How simple it all was.
Her hand hovered over her phone. She wanted to text *I love you, I want to be part of your life—but not* build *it for you.* But she deleted it.
He had to do it himself. Or fail. His choice.
…Another month. Laura peeled potatoes when the landline rang—the heavy old one. Her chest tightened. Only folk from her generation used these. They called with bad news.
“Hello?” she said warily.
“Laura? It’s Sarah. Emma’s friend’s mum. We’ve not met, but… Victor’s here. He’s had an accident. Nothing serious, just a broken arm.”
Sarah’s voice was kind but weary. Clearly fed up but bearing it.
“Sorry to call, but he needs help. Not working, and Emma… well, she needs care too.”
An hour later, Laura was on the bus. A bag held chicken, rice, and orange juice—his favourite.
Sarah answered the door—a tired woman in a dressing gown.
“He’s in the lounge. Emma’s there. Don’t be shocked—he’s not himself.”
Victor looked worse than ever. Thin, greasy hair, arm in plaster. Eyes that once sparkled now dull. Emma huddled in the corner.
“Hi,” he croaked.
Laura nodded, sat on the armchair. Silence. Just the clock ticking.
“Didn’t have to come. I’ll manage,” he muttered, bracing for a fight.
Stubborn. Same as ever.
“Right, I see how well you’re managing,” she said. “I came for the baby. He’s not to blame for having a useless father.”
Victor tensed. Probably cursing her in his head.
“Know what real cruelty is? Not refusing help. It’s doing *everything* for someone till they stop trying. Then they drown and drag you down.”
“Swell. What now?” he snapped.
“Get better. Work. *Live.* Stop waiting for miracles.”
He said nothing, just turned away. She hoped it sank in—not fully, but enough to crack his stubbornness.
Her instincts screamed *help him, take him home.* But sense said *no.* If she caved, she’d carry him forever.
No. She opened her purse, pulled out notes.
“Here. First month’s rent. It’s a *loan.* For the baby—so he’s got a father with *hands,* not just a begging bowl.”
Emma glanced up but stayed quiet. Victor nodded. He knew better than to ask for more.
Laura stood.
“Get well. I’m going.”
She didn’t linger at home. By eveningShe locked the cottage door behind her, knowing some roads were meant to be walked alone.
