“You can divorce a husband, but you can’t divorce your kids!”
“Come in quick! My sister’s here!” called Lydia, beckoning her neighbor Rose inside as soon as she appeared on the doorstep of their home in Manchester.
“Margaret? No way! How many years has it been?” gasped Rose, stepping into the cosy kitchen.
Sitting on the chair was a statuesque woman with a tired but warm smile. The moment she spotted Rose, Margaret jumped up and threw her arms around her. They’d been friends since childhood, sharing joys and tears, and now, after all these years, their reunion felt like stepping back into those carefree days.
“We ought to celebrate! Two years without seeing each other!” Rose suggested, and soon the women were settled at the table, deep in conversation. Each had her own story—stitched together with happiness and heartache, the usual gifts life hands out.
Margaret had been widowed six years ago. Her husband, James, died in a car crash—alongside his mistress. For a whole year, he’d been leading a double life, and Margaret hadn’t noticed. She’d felt something was off between them, but for the sake of their son and daughter, she’d tried everything to keep the marriage intact. The kids adored their dad, and she didn’t want to shatter their world.
But the accident changed everything. The children, devastated by the loss, took ages to recover. Margaret, drowning in her own grief, tried to be their rock, but the pain ate away at their family from the inside.
“My William, on the other hand, is a right tyrant!” Rose sighed, sipping her tea. “Read about toxic relationships online—it’s him to a T. Thank goodness I kicked him out before he got completely out of hand.”
“Husbands are one thing,” Margaret said with a bitter laugh. “You can divorce them. But kids… You can’t escape kids. After James died, mine went completely off the rails. We all grieved, but my son… He blamed me for everything. Said Dad had the affair because of our fights. That it was my fault he lost control and crashed. Now? He hates me. Told me it should’ve been me who died instead. Can you imagine, Rose? That I should’ve—”
She trailed off, her voice cracking, eyes filling with tears. Rose and Lydia sat in silence, lost for words. Margaret took a shaking breath and went on.
“He’s turned into a proper bully. Nineteen years old, and I’m scared of him. It’s not just the insults—he’s got hands on me. I put up with it because… what else can I do? Report my own son? He even picks on my sister for sticking up for me. The other day, he lost his temper and slammed her head into the corner of the table—just because we went for a walk together. He apologised, of course, but the next day? Back to his old tricks. I’m hoping army training might knock some sense into him. My daughter and I fled here just to get a break from his nonsense.”
Rose’s heart ached as she watched her friend. She knew how much Margaret was suffering but couldn’t find the words to help. Lydia, Margaret’s sister, sat quietly, twisting a napkin in her fingers, her own eyes glistening.
“You know,” Margaret continued, “I keep asking myself—where did I go wrong? I tried so hard to be a good mum, and my son sees me as the enemy. He blames me for everything that’s gone wrong in his life. And I… I just don’t know how to carry on.”
“It’s not right,” Rose murmured. “How can anyone treat their mother like that? He needs to realise none of this is your fault!”
“He doesn’t want to realise,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “It’s easier for him to hate me. And I’m terrified he’ll ruin not just my life, but my sister’s too. She only puts up with his nonsense because of me.”
Lydia finally looked up. “Maggie, I don’t regret standing up for you. He’s your boy, but this isn’t on. We’ve got to do something. Maybe talk to him? Or get him to a therapist?”
“A therapist?” Margaret scoffed. “He wouldn’t even listen. Says it’s all my fault, end of story.”
The kitchen fell into a heavy silence, thick as storm clouds. Each woman felt the other’s pain, but none knew how to ease it. Rose, desperate to lighten the mood, raised her mug.
“Here’s to us, girls… To finding the strength to keep going, no matter how much husbands and kids break our hearts.”
Margaret and Lydia managed weak smiles, but their eyes still shimmered. They clinked glasses—though there was no joy in the toast. Margaret stared out the window as dusk settled, thinking of her son. She still loved him, despite the pain he caused. But deep down, she feared that love might just be her undoing.
