**Diary Entry**
*18th June*
“Do what I want—it’s my flat too. If you don’t like it, leave!” James snarled, glaring at his mother from under his brow.
Margaret stepped out of the building, tears blurring her vision. She stumbled to a bench on the playground and sank onto it, pulling her coat tighter. Though mid-June, the nights stayed chilly. The promised heatwave never came.
She shivered, shoving her hands into her pockets. How long before the cold forced her to move? Where would she go? Thrown out by her own son. She choked back a sob. This house had been her whole life—married here, brought James home from the hospital. Her son.
***
“Mum, the class is going to London for the bank holiday,” James announced, dropping his bag by the door.
“Mum, you listening?” He stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her scrub potatoes at the sink. Her stiffened back told him the answer. Still, he tried.
“Mum, can I have the money?”
“How much?” she asked, not turning.
“Train fares, a hostel, meals, museum tickets…” he recited.
“How much?” she snapped, tossing a potato into the pot. Water splashed her dress.
Margaret flung the peeler into the sink and turned.
James slumped. “Right.” He trudged to his room.
“I don’t print money. I earn it. You need new trainers by autumn, and your coat sleeves are too short.” Her voice chased him, shoving at his back.
He slammed the door, but her words seeped through.
“Everyone’s going except me,” he muttered. “I want to go!” His voice cracked, tears burning.
From the kitchen, her retort came sharp: “You’ll travel when you’re older. Earn your own way, then go to America if you like.”
James swallowed hard.
“Ask your dad. He never bought you a proper birthday gift. My child support barely covers basics—”
He yanked on headphones, but her voice clawed through. Wiping his face, an idea struck. When Dad left, he’d said to call if needed. James crept to the hallway. His mother clattered pots, muttering. Slipping on his trainers, he eased the door shut and sprinted to Tommy’s flat—they had a landline.
Tommy answered, grinning. “Need to call someone?”
James grabbed the receiver, dialled, and gasped into the silence.
A clipped voice answered.
“Dad? It’s me!”
“Who?”
“James. Your son.”
Tommy frowned. James turned away.
“What James?”
“Dad?!” The line went dead.
Tommy hovered. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not going. Mum’s broke, and Dad’s a ghost.”
“I’ll ask my parents—”
“No. They’ll tell yours.” He left.
***
As a boy, Mum had called him *sunshine*, kissed his scrapes, bought toys unasked. Then Dad left, and she turned sharp—slapping, shouting, never a kind word. At fourteen, he tuned her out, roaming streets or blasting music. By sixteen, he chased girls, ditching them if they refused kisses, just as he wished he could ditch her.
He came home drunk at 2 AM once. She swung at him. He caught her wrist, squeezed. “Don’t *ever* hit me again.” Her fear thrilled him.
After school, the Army was a relief. Her letters were stiff—*”Take care. Mum.”*
Returning, she hugged him, wept. Then, old patterns: nights out, her screaming matches.
One evening, he brought home a pink-haired girl with a nose ring. “My fiancée. She’s moving in.”
Margaret gaped.
They shared his bed chastely, her presence an act. At dawn, the girl left.
“Bringing slags home now?” Margaret spat.
“My flat, my rules. Don’t like it? *Leave*.”
She crumpled to the floor. He stormed off.
***
On the bench, Margaret wept. *Where did I go wrong? He was my sweet boy, and I broke him.*
Rain mixed with tears. A hand touched her shoulder—James.
“Come home. You’ll catch cold.”
She stumbled after him up the stairs, phantom footsteps echoing.
That night, fever spiked. At dawn, James brought pills, water. Called a doctor. Left eggs on the table.
She cried. *Thank God. Let me fix this.*
For days, his quiet care—*”Rest,” “Eat,” “Take these”*—thawed her heart.
Maybe it wasn’t too late.
*Lesson:* You may not undo the past, but grace can mend what time has cracked.
