My Pride and Joy
Elizabeth adored her son and couldn’t have been prouder of him. Sometimes she wondered how the handsome twenty-four-year-old standing before her could possibly be her little boy. Where had the time gone? It felt like only yesterday he was small, and now here he was—grown, with a girlfriend, likely soon to marry and start a family of his own. She told herself she was ready for it, that she’d accept any choice he made as long as he was happy.
And how like her he looked…
***
She’d married young, still in university, swept away by love. Her mother had tried to talk her out of it.
*What’s the rush? Planning to live off student loans? Can’t you wait just a year? Finish your degree first. And what if children come along? Liz, think this through—love won’t vanish overnight. Besides, that Richard of yours… hardly a catch.*
Elizabeth wouldn’t listen, irritated by her mother’s lack of understanding. How could she not see that life without him was impossible? Of course, Liz got her way. They married. A colleague of her mother’s offered them a small flat, left by her late mother a year prior. No rent—just cover the bills. What else could students afford?
The flat was old, decades without a proper refurb. Still, nearly free. Elizabeth counted it a stroke of luck. She scrubbed it clean, hung the fresh curtains her mother had given her, draped the worn sofa with her own throw. Livable.
The disappointment in marriage—and in her husband—came far too soon. And how hard it was to admit that her mother, as usual, had been right. Within three months, Liz couldn’t fathom how she’d ever misjudged Richard so badly. Had she been blind?
Money slipped through his fingers. A new jacket here, trainers there. Nights out with mates till dawn, then skipping lectures because he couldn’t drag himself out of bed. Did it not cross his mind what they’d eat? How she’d afford groceries?
She endured, saying nothing to her mother. But Mum knew anyway—she always did. She helped where she could, slipping Liz cash, bringing food.
Lately, Richard had taken to inviting his mates over more often. *He* had a flat now, didn’t he? The ever-hungry students emptied the fridge, devouring everything Mum had brought.
One morning, Richard opened the fridge and frowned.
*Where’s all the food?*
*Your lot ate it last night. Don’t you remember?* Liz snapped.
*Even the scones?* he asked.
Unlikely they’d been wolfed down with vodka.
*The scones, the pies, the pasta—even the ketchup and the lemon. Everything.* She threw her hands up.
He shut the fridge. Breakfast was tea and a stale crust of bread lurking in the bread bin.
Elizabeth cracked. She told him exactly what she thought. If he didn’t care about her—his wife, scrubbing dishes and floors—he could at least respect her mother, who bought their food, cooked for them, only for it to vanish into his friends’ stomachs. Had any of them chipped in? Brought so much as a loaf of bread? Most got money and care packages from home—why not them?
Richard apologised, swore it wouldn’t happen again. But a week later, Friday rolled around, and his mates descended like locusts, stripping the fridge bare once more.
*I’ve had enough. I can’t do this anymore,* Elizabeth said, knowing it meant the end.
His friends stopped coming. But now Richard disappeared with them instead. Lately, he didn’t even come home at night. After yet another row—ending with him calling her nagging and dull—Elizabeth packed her things and went back to her mother.
*How did it come to this? Where did the love go?* she sobbed into Mum’s shoulder.
*You just rushed things, love. That Richard wasn’t ready to settle,* Mum murmured, stroking her hair.
Back home, Elizabeth discovered she was pregnant. Between the rows and the stress, she’d forgotten her pills. Mum urged her to terminate—raising a child alone was no small thing.
Again, Elizabeth didn’t listen. She never told Richard. The divorce was swift. She had Peter after graduating. Pressured by Mum, she did a paternity test—no room for Richard to argue—and filed for child support. He paid, though he never saw or asked about the boy.
Elizabeth adored her son, pouring into him all her unused love. The thought of another man repelled her—if his own father hadn’t cared, why would a stranger? Mum helped, but they clashed over Elizabeth’s refusal to rebuild her life. The three of them were cramped.
Then, a stroke of luck. Before dying, Richard’s mother left the flat to Elizabeth and Peter. Guilt, perhaps, for her son’s failings. Elizabeth nearly refused, but Richard himself insisted—said he was leaving, unsure if he’d return.
She moved out, and the rows with Mum stopped.
Still young, yet her son was grown—degree finished, working. Kids these days left home early, but Peter wasn’t in a hurry…
***
So lost in thought, Elizabeth didn’t hear him come in.
*Mum! I’m home!* His deep voice boomed from the hall. She jumped up, set the table, put the kettle on.
Later, she watched him, chin propped on her hand.
*Mum, need to tell you something,* Peter said, pushing his empty plate away.
*What’s wrong?* She straightened.
*No—well, yes. I’m getting married.*
*Honestly, you scared me! I’m happy for you, love. Sophie’ll make a lovely wife—*
*Not Sophie. She’s great, but… I don’t love her,* he dropped.
*Oh? I thought—*
*We split up. It’s Annabelle. She’s incredible, Mum, just—*
Elizabeth listened as he gushed, realising their quiet life was ending.
*How long have you been seeing her? You never mentioned her.*
*About a month.*
*And you’re marrying her after a month? You don’t even know her!*
*I love her. Everyone does. We’ve filed the paperwork.*
That shattered her. Panic surged—her heart plummeted, then hammered in her throat. She’d thought she was ready. Her boy, her world, whom she’d have torn the sky for—hadn’t asked, hadn’t consulted. *Breathe,* she told herself, gasping.
A memory surfaced. They’d been walking home from nursery. Peter tripped on a stone, scraped his knees, wailed more from shock than pain. She’d soothed him, then kicked the stone.
*Take that! Lying in the way like that—made my boy hurt himself!*
At home, she’d cleaned his scrapes, dabbed them with antiseptic, blown gently to ease the sting. It felt like yesterday. Now he spoke of marriage. She wanted to kick Annabelle like that stone.
*When do I meet her?* she asked, steadying her voice.
*Tomorrow. Don’t cook—just tea, yeah?*
*Met her parents yet?*
*They’re up in Scotland. We’re keeping it simple—just the registry office.*
*Where’s she living?*
*Was in halls during uni. Now she rents. Mum, she’ll answer everything tomorrow. You’ll love her.*
She didn’t.
Annabelle was fragile, doll-like, hiding nerves behind haughtiness. She wore a cream fitted jumper and loose white trousers—too prim for twenty-two. Most girls her age would’ve gone for pink hair and crop tops. Her hair was slicked back in a tight bun. *Dressing to impress me,* Elizabeth thought.
Her father was a builder, mum a teacher. Ordinary. Annabelle blogged—no proper job.
Peter hung on her every word. Elizabeth saw it—despite her fragility, Annabelle knew her power and wielded it. Peter was putty in her hands. It stung. She’d raised him, lost sleep—now he’d bend over backwards for her. She fought the jealousy. *It’ll work out.*
*Which uni did you attend?*
*Cambridge. English Lit,* Annabelle said with a slight curl of her lip.
*Nice. And this blogging—it pays?*
*It does, Mum. We’ve got to go—Annabelle’s got a live stream,* Peter cut in.
*What? But the cake—*
*Told you not to bother,* he said, kissing her cheek.
They left. Elizabeth ate cake, tears in her throat, then rang her mother.
*Remember yourself. I begged you not to rush. Did you listen? People don’t learn—they repeat mistakes. Swallow it, or lose him.*
*Always like this. No comfort, just gloating,* Elizabeth hissed, slamming the phone down.
Days later, Peter moved in with Annabelle. No persuading him—love, passionTwo years later, as she rocked her grandson in her arms, Elizabeth finally understood that love wasn’t about holding on—it was about letting go.
