What She Fought For
Margaret Button sat hunched in her armchair in the middle of her Chiswick living room, dabbing at her red eyes with a soggy tissue. She was crying so fiercely that her shoulders jerked, and every other word she said was nearly lost in the sobs.
How am I supposed to carry on without him? she kept saying, as if reciting lines from some new, particularly cruel tragedy. No mother should have to outlive her child! Id give anythingabsolutely anythingif it could be me instead of him!
Next to her on the battered sofa was Emma. For over an hour, Emma had been gently stroking her former mother-in-laws hand, trying her level best to say all the comforting things one says at such moments. She genuinely sympathised, but at six months pregnant herself, Emma was running out of patience, words, and apparently circulation in her right hand.
Margaret, pleasetry and calm down, Emma said, as softly but as firmly as she could. Your hearts not what it used to be. If you get carried off by an ambulance, what am I supposed to do? You know what the NHS is like on a Saturday! Im hardly qualified for a cardiac episode.
Margaret, however, was having none of it. The tsunami of grief drowned out all Emmas efforts, and Margaret clung to the only shred of reliefsharing her woe with anyone within sobbing distance.
Dont you care at all? she whimpered dramatically, fixing Emma with a red-eyed stare. Doesnt it break your heart? Five whole years you two had together!
Emma tensed, her insides knotting. She managed not to show it. Exhaling, she got up and made for the kitchen, telling herself the sight of a steaming mug might be a salve for the both of them. She clicked the kettle on and let her hands rest on the worktop, eyes closed for a blessed moment.
Of course she cared. Of course she was gutted for Simon. There had been a time when shed wanted nothing more than to build a life with himdreams, plans, laughter, Sunday mornings that didnt involve tears. Everything had felt so possible, so solid.
But the last few months had eroded all that, one cold drip at a time. Silences. Barbs. Those acid little fights conducted half in words, half in withering glances over cold tea. If she was honest, staring at the geometric tiles now, she could hardly recognise that happy couple in the photographs.
She poured the tea, stirred in some honeyher grandmothers old remedy for wobblesand returned to the sitting room. Margaret was still huddled into the chair, though her sobs were now more of a whimper, spent and shaky. Emma handed her the mug and perched down beside her, offering quiet presence instead of more words.
Here we go. Sip thisand breathe, she said gently, watching Margarets trembling fingers cradle the mug. I know it hurts. Genuinely, I do. But I cant, I really cant collapse in grief over a man who treated me the way Simon did. Yes, he didlets not paper over it! Emmas voice rose despite her best efforts, noticing Margaret open her mouth to protest. He knew I was pregnant and still carried on with his office friend, for heavens sake!
She paused, hands clasped together, working to control her voice. Memories of furtive office giggles, text messages sent a little too late at night, those sleepless evenings after the truth came outthey all whirled through her mind.
Is that what decent men do? she went on, bitterness lacing her words. He didnt care about me, or his child! The gossip, MargaretI’ve been through the wringer! Now you want me to unravel? No. I’m focusing on my son.
Margaret paled, her hands clamped around the mug so tightly Emma thought the handle might snap off.
Your son, is it? Margaret replied, voice low but stubborn, eyes challenging. You do know Simon was my only child? Doesnt that matter?
A heavy silence fell, punctuated only by the ticking of the gaudy wall clock and the gentle drizzle pecking at the window. Emma drew a deep, deliberate breath.
You will have a grandson, she said softly, motioning to her bump. The little one immediately gave a solid kick, as if insisting on his cameo. For a fleeting moment, Emma smiled, genuinelya thread of hope in a room thick with accusation. A piece of your Simon, Margaret. And I want him to grow up in something kinder than all this.
She locked eyes with Margaret, no accusation, just a quietly desperate request. Pleasethink of him. Dont let all this bitterness bleed onto his world too.
Margaret sat up straighter, snuffing out the tears, her previously crumpled face hardening into something altogether sharper. You cold-hearted little thing! she snapped, her tone suddenly crisp as a January morning. Grandson? Are we even certain? Simon always said he wasnt convinced he was the father!
Emma blinked, the comment landing like a slap. For a moment, she nearly lost herself to anger but kept a grip. She set her own mug down, hands unsteady.
Out, she said quietly, stunned by the rock in her own voice.
How dare you? Margaret gasped, red patches blooming on her cheeks. You cant throw me out of Simons flat! If anyones packing bags, it should be you!
Emma lifted her head. Her gaze was steely, every inch from her ballerina bun to her swollen feet brimming with controlled fury. I said. Out, she repeated, carefully slicing the words.
She did wonder how Margaret kept up the indignation. The perfume on Simons shirts, those missed calls, the lingering smell of someone elseit hadnt exactly been a MI5-level mystery. Margaret had to know, but still clung to loyalty like a suffragette to a banner. The old refrainIf a marriage goes sour, you have to wonder about the wifeechoed nastily in Emmas mind, making her jaw tighten.
Margaret opened her mouth to issue another pronouncement, but Emma held up a hand.
Dont. Please, just go, Emma said, softly but unyielding.
Losing your only childhorrific, unimaginable. Emma, furious as she was, still felt the sympathy knotted in her throat. There was a time shed have wanted Margarets support, not her suspicion. And Simonwell, despite everything, five years was five years. Laughter, lazy dinners, Sunday quizzes, even the silly arguments that always ended with one of them snorting with laughter. In the end, Simon was the father of her baby. That piece of him would never leave.
Oddly enough, Simon had, after the divorce, done something right: signed over his share of the flat to Emma, officially and properly, solicitors and all. She couldnt decide if it was a last-minute act of regret, a parting apology, or just relief at drawing a line under their tangled little drama.
She still couldnt forgive. Not entirely. Not when the bitterness still pinched behind her ribs on sleepless nights. Perhaps she ought to let goeveryone said sobut hearts dont work to timetable.
Still, she hoped for something resembling peace with Margaret. Not for herself. Not for old times. But for her child, soon to arrive, who deserved a family. Even a lopsided, patched-together one.
***
Margaret Button marched up to the door, small suitcase in tow, looking every bit as resolute as a Victoria Line commuter at 8:30 on a Monday. She made a grand, sweeping gesture at the newly painted front door, turning to her latest companion.
There you go, youre living here now! She gestured dramatically, like she was presenting a show home on daytime TV. If Emma gets in your way, Ill call the policehalf the flat was Simons, so I have rights!
The young woman beside herEmilyshifted uncomfortably, fiddling with her sleeve. Im not so sure, she muttered. She could make this really horrible for me, you know? And Ive got to stay calm, what with the you know. She patted her (barely-there) bump.
Margaret seized on that. Precisely why Ill be staying as well. Let Emma just try to push us out.
Emma, meanwhile, had spotted the theatrical entrance from a window and waited, eavesdropping as long as possible. Now, appearing purposefully calm, Emma came outside and put an end to it.
Not happening, Margaret, Emma said, voice so direct Margaret nearly dropped her bag. Simon gave me his share. Documents and all. And why exactly am I expected to let strangers move in?
Margarets jaw fell, then snapped shut in indignation. Because dear Emily here is carrying Simons baby! His heir! She glared disdainfully, then processed what Emma had said. Hang ongave you his share? He didnt ask me! He should have asked me!
Emma nearly laughed. Sorry, Margaret, this is the 21st centurygrown adults dont need permission slips from their mothers. And, yes, Im the one expecting Simons child. If other women want to play at families, best do it somewhere else.
Emily blushed a deep crimson, taking a step back. Margaret, too, was lost for words, visibly calculating her options.
Why are you attacking us? Emily managed, her bravado already wilting. Simon loved meand we were planning to get married! He wouldnt just give away his share! Where am I meant to live?
Emma just raised an eyebrow, cool as you please. Plenty of room at Margarets, Id think?
Emily recoiled. In a two-up, two-down out in Slough? Youve got to be kidding!
Not my concern, Emma replied, her tone hardening. Funny, thoughyou got pregnant awfully quickly for someone who claims to barely have known Simon.
Emily clutched her stomach reflexively but said nothing. Margaret, bristling with outrage, put herself between the pair.
You keep your voice down! she barked. Emilys child is all I have left of my Simon!
Emma faced Margaret, voice as steady as ever. You want to see your grandchild? Show a little respectotherwise, you won’t see him at all. The laws very clear about harassment, Margaret. Try me.
Margaret hesitated, then huffed, smoothing Emilys arm with forced gentleness. Dont you worry, darling. When the babys born, well make sure he gets what’s hisSimons car, a bit of the family silver, maybe even the flat. And as for a deed of giftthose can be contested
The chill in the air was almost physical. Emma didnt speak; she simply balled her fists in her pockets and stared Margaret down. She knew this was just round one. Whatever happened, she would stand her groundfor herself and her son.
***
Margaret heaved herself up the stairs to the third floor, her legs heavier with each step. Even her flat, sensible shoes couldnt cushion the weight of disappointment.
The day had been an utter disaster. It began with a clandestine trip to Emilys, hoping for a lifeline to her son through this new grandchild. That hope was dashed in less time than it takes to pour a cuppa: the DNA test result the nurse read out in that tight-lipped, clinical voice left Margaret reelingSimon definitely wasnt the father.
That lying girlimagine the nerve! Margaret fumed, clenching her fists as she went.
She stopped at Emmas old door, heart thudding. Emma had had a sonAndrew. Margaret sniffed at the name: Andrew! What was wrong with Simon Junior? At least that wouldve been proper. But in truth, what mattered now was that Andrew was, without a doubt, her flesh and bloodher only grandson.
Oh yes, hes mine, she concluded with fierce resolve. That much is obvious.
Shed make sure she was in his life. Daily visits, stories, walks to the local nursery, a proper presence. She could even raise him herselfwhy not? She wasnt ancient. Emma, young and robust, could have more, surely.
She imagined their reunion: Andrew peeking up at her, Margaret gathering him in her arms, all grievances forgotten for this single, priceless bond. She practised her speech to Emmaready to forgive, wanting to be involved, prepared to be the grandmother of the century.
By the time shed reached the door, the resolve was thicker than her cardigan. She pressed the bell, heart racing.
At last, the door swung open. A man, clearly the new owner, stood theretea in hand, pyjamas on, not a flicker of recognition on his face.
Yes? he asked, not even bothering to muster enthusiasm.
Margaret faltered. ErEmma? she stammered.
He shook his head. Emma sold us this place a month ago, love. Didnt leave a forwarding address.
He closed the door. Margaret was left with nothing but the hum of the lift and a clatter of distant voices. She jabbed at her phone, dialling Emmas number. Voicemail. Again. Finally, a mechanical voice: This number cannot be connected.
Margaret slumped onto the battered windowsill on the landing, struggling to make sense of it. How dare she take Simons boy and vanish? Her bitterness sank into her bones, her fists pressing deep into her palms.
But even as dismay was about to swallow her, she pulled herself upright, steeling her features.
No, I wont let her just steal away my grandson, she told herself. She had a new mission nowto find Andrew, bring him home, and rename him properly: Simon, after his father.
And shed see it through.
No matter the cost.
