My Flesh and Blood
Margaret adored her son and took immense pride in him. Sometimes, she marvelled at how this handsome young man of twenty-four was truly her own child. Where had the time gone? It felt like just yesterday he was a little boy, and now he was grown—with a girlfriend, perhaps soon to marry, his own family on the horizon. She thought she was prepared for it, ready to accept whatever choice he made, so long as he was happy.
And how much he resembled her…
*
She had married young—still in university—for love. Her mother had tried to dissuade her.
“What’s the rush? Planning to live off your student loan? Can’t you wait a year? Finish your degree first. And what if children come along? Margaret, think this through—love won’t disappear. Besides, your William isn’t exactly a prize.”
Margaret refused to listen. How could her mother not understand that life without him was unbearable? Of course, she got her way and married him. A colleague of her mother’s offered them a tiny flat left behind by her late mother. No rent—just cover the bills. What sort of money did students have, anyway?
The flat was old, untouched by renovations for decades. But nearly free. Margaret counted it a blessing. She scrubbed the place clean, hung fresh curtains (her mother’s hand-me-downs), and draped the worn sofa with her own throw. It was livable.
Disappointment in marriage—and in her husband—came far too quickly. And how painful it was to admit her mother had been right, as usual. Within three months, Margaret wondered how she’d ever misjudged William. Had she been blind?
Money never stayed in his pocket. He’d immediately spend it on new clothes or trainers. Out with mates till all hours, then too hungover for lectures. Did he ever stop to wonder how they’d eat? Where she’d get the money for groceries?
Margaret endured, saying nothing to her mother. But her mum saw right through it, helping where she could—slipping her cash, bringing food.
Lately, William had taken to inviting his friends over more often—he had his own place now, after all. A pack of perpetually hungry students emptied the fridge, devouring everything her mother brought.
One morning, William opened the fridge and frowned.
“Where’s all the food?”
“Your mates polished it off last night—remember?” Margaret snapped.
“The pancakes too?”
Unlikely they’d eaten those with vodka.
“The pancakes, the sausages, the pasta—even the ketchup and lemons. Everything.” She threw her hands up.
William shut the fridge. Breakfast was tea and a stale crust of bread from the bread bin.
Margaret finally exploded. If he didn’t care about her—his wife, scrubbing piles of dishes and mopping floors—he could at least respect her mother, who kept them fed while he played host. Had any of his friends chipped in? Brought so much as a loaf? Most got money or care packages from home.
William apologised, swore it wouldn’t happen again. But by Friday, his mates were back, emptying the fridge like a plague of locusts.
“I’ve had enough,” Margaret said, knowing she was ending her marriage.
The friends stopped coming. But now William vanished with them instead. Lately, he didn’t come home at all. After yet another row—him calling her boring, nagging—she packed her things and returned to her mother.
“How did it come to this? Where did the love go?” She sobbed into her mother’s shoulder.
“You rushed into it. William wasn’t ready,” her mother murmured, stroking her hair.
Back home, Margaret discovered she was pregnant. Between arguments and stress, she’d forgotten her pills. Her mother urged her to terminate while it was early—raising a child alone was hard.
But Margaret ignored her again. She never told William. The divorce was swift.
She had Oliver after graduating—Oliver, short for Oliver, never “Ollie.” Finally yielding to her mother’s insistence, she took a paternity test to secure child support. William didn’t contest it. Paid dutifully, though he never saw his son or asked after him.
Margaret poured every ounce of love into Oliver, devoting herself entirely to him. Men were out of the question. If his own father didn’t care, why would some stranger? Her mother helped, but increasingly they argued over Margaret’s refusal to remarry. Three of them in that small flat was suffocating.
Then, a stroke of luck with housing. William’s late mother left the flat to Margaret and Oliver—perhaps guilt over her son. Margaret wanted to refuse, but William insisted she take it. Said he was leaving anyway, return date unknown.
Moving out eased tensions with her mother.
Still young herself, yet her son was grown—degree finished, employed. These days, youngsters fled the nest early, but Oliver stayed.
*
Lost in memories, Margaret didn’t hear him come home from work.
“Mum! I’m back,” his deep voice rang from the hall. She sprang up, setting the table, boiling the kettle.
Later, she watched him, chin propped on her hand.
“Mum, need to tell you something,” Oliver said, pushing his empty plate away.
“What’s wrong?” She straightened.
“Nothing—well, yes. I’m getting married.”
“You scared me half to death! I’m thrilled, love. Emma will make a wonderful wife—”
“Not Emma. She’s lovely, but… I’m marrying Charlotte.”
Margaret blinked. “Since when?”
“A month.”
“And you’re proposing after a *month*? You barely know her!”
“I love her. She’s incredible. We’ve already filed the paperwork.”
That last line shattered her. Panic surged—her heart plummeted, then hammered in her throat. She’d thought herself prepared. Her boy, her darling, whom she’d adored, raised, lost sleep over—hadn’t asked, hadn’t consulted. Just dropped the bombshell. *Breathe*, she told herself, gulping air.
A memory surfaced: Leaving nursery, Oliver tripped on a stone, scraped his knees, wailing more from shock than pain. Margaret soothed him, then kicked the stone hard. “That’s for you! Lying in the way—made my boy hurt himself.”
At home, she’d cleaned his knees, dabbed antiseptic, blown softly to cool the sting. That was yesterday, wasn’t it? Now he was marrying. She wanted to kick Charlotte like that stone.
“When do I meet her?” She forced calm.
“Tomorrow. Don’t fuss—just tea, yeah?”
“Met her parents?”
“They’re up in Scotland. We’re skipping the wedding—just signing the papers.”
“Where’s she live?”
“Was in student digs. Renting now. Mum, she’ll answer everything. You’ll love her.” He left for his room.
Margaret washed up, telling herself it could’ve been worse.
Next day, she roasted a chicken, made salad, bought cake, cleaned flat, even styled her hair. Oliver fetched his fiancée.
“Mum, we’re here!”
Beside him stood a fragile, nervous girl with doll-like features, masking fear with haughtiness. Cream turtleneck, billowy white trousers. Twenty-two at most. Girls that age wore crop tops, dyed hair pink. Charlotte’s sleek bun was too deliberate. *Dressed to impress me*, Margaret thought, ushering them in.
Charlotte’s dad was a builder, mum a teacher. Average family. Post-uni, she blogged instead of traditional work.
Oliver hung on her every word. Despite her frailty, Charlotte wielded power expertly. Oliver was under her spell. Margaret’s heart ached—she’d raised him, lost sleep, and now he’d bend over backwards for this girl. *Calm down*, she told herself. *This is jealousy. It’ll be fine.*
“Which uni did you attend?”
“Durham, English lit,” Charlotte said, nose wrinkling slightly.
“Nice. And blogging pays?”
“It does, Mum. We’ve got to go—Charlotte’s streaming tonight,” Oliver cut in.
*What? No cake? No tea?*
“I *said* not to fuss.” He pecked her cheek.
They left. Margaret ate cake through tears, then rang her mother.
“Remember yourself. I begged you not to rush marriage. Did you listen? People don’t learn from others’ mistakes. Either accept it or lose him. Take a valerian.”
“Typical! No comfort, just ‘I told you so.’” Margaret slammed the phone down.
Two days later, Oliver moved in with Charlotte. She pleaded, but love trumped reason. He couldn’t live without her.
“I warned you—now you’re alone. Should’ve remarried. Never listened…” Salt in the wound.
Three weeks on, Oliver returned, haggard.
“Everything alright?” Margaret fretted.
“Fine. Charlotte’s filming. Didn’t want to intrude.”
“Good. Hungry? Look at you—skin and bone.”
She’d made mash and fried cutAfter months of quiet dinners and shared walks with the widower, Margaret finally realised there was room in her heart for new love, just as her son had found his own happiness.
