Margaret woke up late. There was no rush—she’d been retired for seven years, with no one to care for but herself. A little extra time in bed wouldn’t hurt. Yet an unease gnawed at her, though she couldn’t pin down why. Everything seemed fine—what was there to worry about? Still, it lingered.
She got up, tidied herself, put the kettle on, and glanced out the window. The sky over the house across the street was tinged crimson—the low winter sun would soon rise. That meant the fortnight of thaw had finally ended, and frost had returned. *Good. I’ll have a cuppa and pop to the shop.* She lifted the whistling kettle.
Pouring herself tea, she sipped slowly, warmth spreading through her. Petite and slender, she’d never put on weight, even after having her only son. Her husband, a big man, used to call her “Maggie-love,” teasingly. But he’d been gone ten years now.
She raised her cup—then, a sharp buzz from the front door jolted her. Tea sloshed over her thin, age-spotted hand, scalding it. She barely held back a gasp. *Trouble. Knew it. What next?* Before she could dwell, the doorbell rang again—long, insistent.
Margaret blew on her hand and shuffled to the door, muttering, *Who on earth comes calling this early?* When she opened it, she barely recognized the haggard man in rumpled clothes. It took her a moment—*Daniel?* He seemed just as startled by her aged face.
“Got a guest, Mum.” He forced a grin, shaking off the awkwardness.
“Daniel? Why didn’t you call? I wasn’t expecting you.” She pressed herself against his chest, and he half-heartedly returned the hug.
The smell of travel and stale clothes clung to him—and something else, something that set her on edge. She pulled back, studying him: the scruffy beard, puffy face, red-rimmed eyes.
“You alone? Where’s Emma? The little one?”
“You not happy to see just me?” He avoided her gaze.
“Course I am! Just—caught me off guard.” She stepped aside, letting him in. “Come on, get yourself settled.”
Daniel crossed the threshold, dropped a large duffel bag with a thud, and scanned the hallway.
“Home. Nothing’s changed.”
“You on holiday? In the dead of winter?” She eyed the bag.
“Later, Mum. I’m knackered.” He shucked off his coat.
“Right, right. Tea’s still hot.” She bustled to the kitchen, fetching his old mug from the cupboard.
Daniel followed, slouching at the table, legs spread wide, dwarfing the small kitchen. She set the cup down.
“Hungry? I’ve got some stew. Made it yesterday—like I knew you’d come.”
“Yeah, go on.” He shrugged. “Missed your cooking.” A flicker of a smile.
She reheated the stew, sliding the steaming bowl toward him with a thick slice of bread. She sat across from him, chin resting on her hand.
“Got anything stronger with this?” He gave her a quick look, stirring the stew.
“Don’t keep spirits,” she said flatly.
She watched as he ate noisily, eyes half-lidded, like a contented cat in a sunbeam.
“How’s Emma? What year’s she in at school? Why didn’t they come with you?”
Daniel kept eating, as if he hadn’t heard.
By his look alone, she knew—he’d been drinking. His wife had had enough and kicked him out. Where else would he go but here? She *was* glad he’d come—her only boy—but that unease tightened in her chest.
He pushed the empty bowl aside. She jumped up, refilled his tea, nudged a bowl of biscuits closer.
“Emma and I split. I’m here for good.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Well… rest up. You’ll find work. It’ll sort itself.” She took the bowl to the sink, then sat back down.
Daniel gulped his tea, staring past her. Then he stood.
“Right. I’m done in. Gonna kip for a bit. We’ll talk later.”
As she washed up, she thought her heart had known—this visit wouldn’t be easy. When she peeked into the living room later, Daniel was sprawled on the sofa, telly blaring. She sat beside him.
“Tell me what happened. You left them the flat? That’s decent of you. This is your home, too.”
“What’s to tell? We’re done.” He didn’t turn his head.
She studied him—older, eyes hollow, a deep furrow between his brows. Lost. Maybe just tired? The trip down from Manchester was long. She’d never managed to visit him—no money, or fear of what she’d find.
She remembered when he’d finished uni, announcing he’d move north with a mate. A new factory, promising careers. He’d marry, have a daughter.
The first few years, they’d all visit. Then trips grew scarce. By lunch, Daniel would crack open a bottle. His dad would shake his head, Emma would frown.
Once, Margaret asked her, *Does he drink much?* Emma had burst into tears.
*”I warned him—I’d leave. He’d promise to stop, but three days later… back at it.”*
Daniel brushed off his parents’ concerns. Then stopped visiting entirely. Calls were rare—*Work’s busy, new flat, too expensive to travel.* When she dared ask if he was drinking, he’d snap and hang up.
She sighed. No use sitting about—Daniel was here, she needed groceries. Let him rest.
But when she returned with heavy bags, Daniel was gone.
She checked his room. His duffel was there. She fought the urge to rummage—*No, that’s not right.* Excuses came easy: no gift? Well, he was struggling. Not that she needed anything.
Daniel came back late, swaying. Fumbled in the hallway, dropped something. *Old mates, maybe? Someone’ll help him find work.*
“Had a few, Mum. Don’t start.” He staggered in, waved her off, and crashed onto his bed.
When snores rang out, she peeked in. Sprawled in his clothes, arms wide. The pity nearly choked her.
Next morning, he avoided her eyes over breakfast. Skipped food, just tea.
“What’s the plan?” she asked. “I won’t have drinking here. Straight up.”
“Gonna chuck me out?” He shoved his cup.
She flinched, the old burn on her hand throbbing.
“Forgot the flat’s half mine?” His reddened eyes hardened.
Margaret blinked fast. She remembered pushing her husband to put Daniel on the deed. *Only son—what if something happens?*
Days passed. Daniel claimed job hunting, came home smashed. She’d wait by the window after he passed out, staring at the city lights. This wouldn’t end well.
Then came the drinking buddies. She could handle one—once Daniel conked out, she’d shoo the guest out. But groups? The flat reeked of booze and sweat. Mornings were spent scrubbing, swallowing tears.
Talking was useless. He’d wave her off—once, he even raised a hand. Big like his dad—how could she stop him? She confided in the neighbour, ex-police.
“Call the squad. They’ll hold him overnight—but he’ll come back worse. Where’s he getting booze money?”
“Pinches from my purse. I hide it now. Sold my wedding ring, earrings—too slow to stop him. I’m done. Just… done.” Shame burned her cheeks.
“Tough it out. He’ll slip up—get nicked for theft. That’s when he’ll see jail. Till then… if he kicks off, run to me.”
*Easier said.* The flat stank. Strangers lurked. She stopped cooking—they’d raid the fridge. Bread and beans for them; she went hungry.
Who’d help? Nights were spent crying, begging God to take her. Better dead than this—starving, weeping, her son robbing her blind.
She wondered—when had he turned? Once so bright. His dad would’ve been ashamed.
One night, Daniel brought a woman home—Lucy, garish makeup, cheap clothes. *”We’re getting hitched.”* Another drinker. They’d argue, brawl. Margaret hid in the dark, terrified to intervene.
One predawn, she woke to fingers under her pillow. She flicked the lamp on. Daniel didn’t blink.
“Gimme cash.”
“I’ve none—” His bloodshot glare cut her dead. She handed over her last twenty quid. He rifled through her blankets, pockets—humiliation like she’d never knownThey never came back, and in the quiet that followed, Margaret found a fragile peace, though her heart still ached for the boy he’d once been.
