**A Diary Entry**
*”I’ll do what I like. It’s my flat too. If you don’t like it, leave!”* Thomas glared at his mother from under his brow.
Margaret stepped out of the building, her vision blurred by tears. She stumbled to a bench in the playground and sank onto it heavily, pulling her coat tighter around herself. Even though it was mid-June, the evenings stayed chilly. The heat the forecasters had promised never arrived.
She shivered, tucking her hands into her pockets. She’d sit here until she froze stiff—but then what? Where could she go? At her age, thrown out by her own son. A sob escaped her. She’d spent her whole life in this house—left from here to marry, brought Thomas home from the hospital as a newborn. Her son…
***
*”Mum, my class is going to London over the bank holiday,”* Tommy announced as he kicked off his trainers in the hallway.
*”Mum, are you listening?”* He stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her peel potatoes at the sink. The rigid set of her shoulders told him London was off the table. Still, he tried.
*”Mum, can I have the money?”* he asked, raising his voice over the running water.
*”How much?”* she muttered without turning.
*”Train tickets, hotel, meals, museum entries…”* he rattled off the list he’d rehearsed.
*”How much?”* Margaret snapped, tossing a potato into the pan. Water splashed her face, dampening her blouse.
She flung the peeler into the sink and rounded on him.
*”Right.”* Thomas dropped his head and shuffled to his room.
*”I don’t have money to spare. I work for it. You need new shoes by autumn—you barely got through spring in those. And your coat’s too short in the sleeves!”* Her voice chased him down the hall, shoving at his back.
Thomas shut his door, but her words slithered under it anyway.
*”Everyone’s going but me,”* he grumbled. *”I want to see London too!”* His voice cracked, thick with swallowed tears.
His mother probably didn’t hear, but it felt like she answered:
*”You’ll travel when you’re older. Earn your own money and go to America if you want!”* she shouted from the kitchen.
Tommy wiped his eyes.
*”Ask your father. He never bought you a decent present—just cheap toys on your birthday. Not a penny beyond child support. And what can I buy with that? You’re growing out of everything—do you know how much clothes cost?”* Her tirade rolled on.
Thomas shoved on headphones, but her voice punched through. He scrubbed his cheeks. Of course—his dad had said to call if he ever needed help. Well, he needed it now. No mobile, though.
He cracked his door. His mother clattered dishes in the kitchen, muttering. Slipping into the hall, he yanked on his trainers and eased the flat door shut behind him. He bolted downstairs to his mate Jacob’s—they had a landline.
Jacob beamed when he opened the door.
*”Need to make a call,”* Thomas said, grabbing the receiver. He dialled, holding his breath through the rings.
He almost hung up when a voice answered.
*”Dad! Hi!”*
*”Who’s this?”*
Thomas met Jacob’s confused stare and turned away.
*”It’s Tommy.”*
*”Who?”*
*”Dad?!”* The line went dead.
Thomas replaced the receiver, throat tight.
*”What’s wrong?”* Jacob asked.
*”Not going to London. Mum’s skint, and Dad just hung up on me.”*
*”I’ll ask my parents. Say it’s important. They’ll lend it—I’ll cover you,”* Jacob offered.
*”No. They’ll tell yours. Forget it.”* Thomas left.
When he was little, his mum had kissed him, called him “duck” and “sunshine,” bought toys without being asked. Then his dad left, and she changed—snapping, slapping, never a kind word. Just shouts and cuffs round the head. Worse than a smacked bum.
At fourteen, he tuned her out—headphones, street corners, anywhere but home. At sixteen, he chased girls for the warmth he’d lost. If one refused a kiss, he dropped her like he wished he could drop his mum. Came home only to sleep, staring at the ceiling, cursing his life.
He scraped by in school, barely revising. Tried fags, lager, vodka, even weed—but ran out of cash before getting hooked.
One night, he stumbled in past midnight. His mum was waiting. She swung at him; he caught her wrist and squeezed until she gasped.
*”Don’t you dare shout at me!”* He shoved her away and slammed his door hard enough to crack plaster.
Her eyes had held fear. She never raised a hand again—but the shouting didn’t stop.
Each day, the gap between them widened. Maybe she wanted to fix it, but momentum carried her downhill. Thomas locked himself away, master of his own emptiness. Her screams broke against his indifference.
After school, the army took him. A relief—better than mooching off her. A year away, then he’d get a job, a place of his own…
Yet he missed her letters. Brief updates, always ending the same: *”Look after yourself. Mum.”*
When he returned, she hugged him, even cried. Then—back to normal. Nights out, dawn returns. Her yelling, weeping.
*”Do it yourself. Not now. Later.”*
Once, he brought home a girl with neon hair and a nose ring. Another parent-hating stray.
*”Meet my fiancée. She’s moving in.”* His glare silenced his mother’s protest.
They shut themselves in his room. He didn’t touch her—not with his mum listening through the wall. At breakfast, the girl left.
*”Bringing your tarts home now?”* his mum hissed.
*”I’ll do what I like. It’s my flat too. Don’t like it? Leave!”* He slammed his door.
Margaret sagged to the floor, trembling. Then she grabbed her coat and fled…
***
On the bench, Margaret wept, pain leaching out with her tears. *Why? What did I do wrong? I loved him. Who else have I got? Now we’re strangers—enemies. My fault. He was such a sweet boy. But I scolded, slapped, blamed him for everything. Thought being hard would make him strong. Instead, I made him cruel.*
She looked up at the twilight sky, dotted with stars. Once, it had been thick with them.
*”If you’re there—help me. I don’t know what to do. Where can I go?”* Her whisper frayed on tears.
People hurried past; cars sped by. She didn’t notice the drizzle, or her own shaking, until a hand touched her shoulder.
Thomas stood over her. She flinched.
*”Mum, come home. You’ll catch cold.”*
She stood slowly, legs stiff. They climbed the stairs in silence, footsteps echoing.
Inside, the kettle was already boiling.
By morning, she was feverish. The room spun when she tried to rise.
*”Mum, drink this.”* Thomas held out pills and water. He propped her up, guided the tablets to her lips. *”Sleep now.”*
He called a doctor, phoned her work. Left water by her bed before heading to his job.
When she woke, sweat-soaked, the fever had broken. A plate of eggs waited on the table. She cried into her hands.
Last night, she’d sat in the rain, begging the sky for mercy.
*”Thank you… Give me time to make it right…”*
That evening, she struggled to cook, but her back ached, her head swam.
*”Mum, go to bed. I’ll sort it.”*
She lay down, coughing. *He never calls me Mum. Please, not yet—let me fix this.*
Three days later, she improved. They hadn’t spoken properly, but his *”rest,”* *”drink your soup,”* carried a gentleness that thawed her heart.
Hope flickered. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
**Lesson learned:** Hate builds walls, but regret—if you let it—can tear them down. Even the deepest cracks might still hold glue.
