**Diary Entry – 16th March**
What on earth do you need all this for?
“You’re calling *me* heartless? *Me?* You were the one who forgot about basic protection, then decency, and now you drag some pregnant girl into my home and demand a bigger room? How do you like *that* situation, son?”
Margaret spoke bluntly, but truthfully. She wasn’t attacking—no, she was defending what was hers.
Edward, on the other hand, paced the room like a man sizing up weaknesses, plotting his next move. It was clear: he didn’t see a thing wrong with himself.
—
It all started years ago. The day Margaret and William—God rest his soul—moved into their first flat. No bed, just air mattresses. Over time, they scraped together enough for a second flat, for their son. Then came the cottage—big enough for two families, so grandchildren could one day play on the veranda and in the garden.
But William passed when Edward had only just started university. He left Margaret everything: the fruits of their labour, happy memories, and their son—her last source of warmth and joy.
Edward got his degree, moved out, married. A grandson came along. She was happy. Then, a year later, he announced the divorce.
“We weren’t compatible. Couldn’t live with her,” he said, as if discussing a stray pup. “We agreed—since I’m the father, I gave her the flat. In exchange, she won’t file for child support.”
Margaret clutched her head.
“Brilliant. Real knight in shining armour. Empty pockets and all. You didn’t even buy that flat,” she snapped.
Even then, she sensed she’d be the one footing the bill for his grand generosity. And she was right.
Soon, he turned up again—new wife, already pregnant. They asked to stay with her “for a bit.” She didn’t mind. At first.
She tried to be kind. Cooked meals, changed the towels, hung their laundry. Left extra portions on the stove—just in case Emily got peckish.
But gratitude was nowhere in sight.
Emily didn’t work—”not in her condition.” Margaret bit her tongue, though privately she disagreed.
“I’d have worked till seven months at least,” she complained to her friend, Barbara. “No home, Edward’s wage barely covers anything. She knew what she was getting into. He can’t carry them alone, and she’s just lounging about.”
“Go easy on her, love,” Barbara soothed. “She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant, my foot. I’ve been there. Think before making babies! She’s not ill—not even morning sickness. Just settled in nicely. Who d’you think they’ll come running to when they can’t afford a pram?”
“Give it time. Once the baby’s in nursery, she’ll work…”
“Nursery? They said a *few months*,” Margaret muttered, half to herself.
The mess piled up. Dust coated Edward’s room. The sink overflowed with dishes. Tea-stained mugs turned black with neglect.
She endured. She always watched first, acted later.
Edward, meanwhile, vanished into his own world. Late nights at work, then glued to his phone or idly stroking Emily’s bump before sneaking out for a smoke by the bench. Long chats with neighbours. At this rate, they’d never save a penny.
“Mum, how about swapping rooms? Ours can’t even fit a cot,” he said one day, casual as asking for the salt.
Margaret faltered. Three seconds, and her life flashed by—William’s smile as they painted walls, picked curtains, called their home a *fortress*.
Now someone was tearing it down, building their nest from the rubble.
“The baby’s not due for months. You’re only here *temporarily*, aren’t you?”
He looked away. Emily turned her head. The truth was obvious—*not* temporary. They’d made themselves at home.
He tried again. She held firm.
The next blow came a week later. Over breakfast, Edward tossed out:
“Why not sell the cottage? Enough for a deposit.”
Thank God she was sitting. This wasn’t a request—it was a demand.
“Edward, your father and I *slaved* for that house. He poured his soul into it, drafted the plans himself. And I won’t sell it because you can’t manage what’s yours.”
“What do *you* need it for? You’re alone now. We’d get a mortgage, move out—easier for everyone.”
Margaret stared. A direct hit. The grief still sharp, nights spent crying for William.
“I just meant… you can’t handle it alone,” he mumbled.
Silence. Suddenly, she saw it—they’d drain her dry. What then? When they’d taken the room, the cottage, the flat?
Nothing good. Edward would keep handing away what others had built. She’d be left with scraps.
No. This stopped now.
“You’ve got three days to leave,” she said, voice icy. “Take the pregnancy, the cot, the mortgage—somewhere else. I’m done.”
Quiet. A month passed without so much as a text.
She slept better. No slamming cupboards, no complaints about lost belongings.
But mornings grew heavier.
The kitchen stayed empty. Milk soured from disuse. No need to cook. The telly gathered dust.
Every Friday, she drove to the cottage. Snow still lingered, but sun warmed the earth. Stepping inside, her heart leapt—that smell of wood and dust, William’s voice in the air.
*”We’ll grow old here, Maggie. Maybe with grandkids.”*
She sat for hours on the veranda bench, remembering their debates—painting the shutters, whether to axe the apple tree. He’d insisted they keep it.
Now, it was the only thing left bearing fruit.
On the way back, she ran into Martha, a neighbour.
“Saw your lot recently. Edward’s doing construction work. Staying with Emily’s friend. Belly’s proper showing now.”
Margaret nodded, eyes on the sky. No interest in digging through *their* mess. *Theirs.* When had her son stopped being *hers*?
That evening, she pulled out an old album. Edward on William’s shoulders, paint-splattered and grinning. Graduation—ill-fitting suit, solemn face, eyes full of hope.
He’d always wanted to be strong. She remembered him at five, shielding a pup from boys with fireworks. Knees knocking, but he stood firm. Then William arrived. What a good boy he’d been. Simpler times.
Her hand hovered over the phone. Part of her wanted to text—*I love you. I want to be part of your life—not build it for you.* But she deleted it.
His path to walk. Or stumble.
—
Another month. Peeling potatoes when the landline rang—the clunky one, the kind only the elderly used. Her stomach lurched. Calls like this meant trouble. Or death.
“Hello?”
“Margaret? It’s Olivia. Emily’s friend’s mum. We’ve not met, but… Edward’s here. Had an accident. Don’t panic—just a broken arm.”
The voice was kind but weary. Tolerating, not pleased.
“Sorry to call, but he needs help. Not working, and Emily… well, she needs looking after too.”
An hour later, Margaret was on the bus. Tupperware of chicken and rice, orange juice—his favourite—in her bag.
Olivia met her at the door. A tired woman in a dressing gown.
“He’s in the lounge. Emily’s there. Just—don’t be shocked. He’s not himself.”
Edward looked awful. Gaunt, greasy hair, arm in plaster. Eyes that once sparkled now dull as streetlamps. Emily hunched on a stool, arms wrapped around herself.
“Hi,” he croaked.
She nodded, sat on the armchair’s edge. Silence, save for the clock’s ticking.
“Didn’t have to come. I’ll manage,” he said, bracing for a fight.
Stubborn. Always.
“Managed well, I see,” she said. “I came for the baby. He doesn’t deserve a father with nothing but an open palm.”
His jaw tightened. Probably seething inside.
“Know what real cruelty is? Not refusing help. It’s doing everything *for* someone till they forget how to live. Then they drown, drag everyone down with them.”
“Great. What now, then?” he huffed.
“Heal. Work. Stop waiting for miracles.”
No reply, but a flicker of shame. Not full clarity—just a crack in his stubborn pride.
Her instincts screamed to take him home. But sense won. If she caved, she’d never stop carrying him.
No. She opened her purse, counted out notes.
“First month’s rent. A *loan*—for the baby’s sake. IShe left without another word, and as the bus pulled away, she realised—some things grow stronger when you let them go.
