Margaret awoke to a crash. Again. Something flyingsomething else smashing against the wall. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table: half six in the morning. Sunday, of course. The only day she could sleep in, maybe until eight, if she was lucky.
Mum! yelled Harry from the kitchen. Wheres my glass? Youve moved everything again!
Fifty-two. She pushed herself upright and pulled on her dressing gown. In the mirror: the worn face of a woman who could barely summon the memory of her last peaceful rest. Grey roots stark against thinning hair, shadows blooming beneath her eyes. When had she grown so old?
Im coming, she muttered, dragging her feet to the kitchen.
Harry stood in the middle of the wreckage. Shards from a broken plate littered the floormost likely the one hed thrown while searching for that precious glass. Twenty-five years old, tall and broad-shouldered. But he acted like a sulky, spoiled child of three.
Heres your glass, Margaret fished out a blue tumbler with Best Son scrawled on it in fading letters.
Shed bought it, what, seven years ago? Back then, shed thought hed settle down, get himself a job, manage something like a normal life. Now, the writing seemed more of a taunt than a sentiment.
Whyd you put it there? I told youI want my glass on the table!
Harry, I washed up last night
Not Harry! Its just Harold! How many times do I have to tell you?
He snatched the glass from her, slopping cold tea into it from the pot. Margaret stared at the mess, already feeling her soul shrivel. More to clean. Another plate to replace. Another thing to endure.
Mum, whats happened? Emma appeared in the doorway, slim and pale in an ancient pair of pyjamas. Nineteen, though her fragile frame suggested sixteen. Training to be a primary school teacher. So much hope, if only she could survive in this madness.
Its nothing, love. A plates broken, thats all.
Oh, sure, it just broke itself, Harry sneered. Jumped straight off the table, I bet.
Emma grabbed the dustpan and brush without a word, sweeping the splinters with expertise only pain brings. Like smashed crockery at dawn was just any old morning.
Dont touch that! barked Harry. Did I ask you to clean up?
So whos meant to do it then? she replied softly.
Not your business!
Margaret collapsed at the table, head in her hands. Lord above, how much longer could she cope? How many more screaming matches, slammed doors, these constant little wars under her own roof?
It had been ten years since David diedher husband, their father. His heart gave out. Or perhaps, just maybe, hed had enough of this wild world. Harry was still at technical college then, but dropped out within months. Not for me, he grumbled. He tried a job at the local supermarketlasted two weeks. Left because the manager was an idiot. Then construction siteshe didnt fit in, all morons. A go at the car washthe boss is a wanker. And on and on, year after year. Margaret used to hope he’d find his feet, then she pleaded with him to try, then finally, in sorrow, shed just accepted it. Emma handed out leaflets at weekends, earning a meagre twenty pounds a day. Just enough for bus fare and a sandwich for uni.
And all the while, Harry grew more bitterat everyone, at life, at her and Emma. Especially at his mother. Margaret, she was to blame for everything. It was her fault he was a failure. Shed raised him wrong. She had to keep feeding him, clothing him, giving him shelter.
Mum, whats for breakfast? Harry slouched in a chair.
Omelette. Or porridge.
Porridge again! He rolled his eyes. Why cant you buy some decent cereal?
Harry, I bought cereal yesterday. You ate it in two days.
So? Get more!
With what? I dont get paid until the end of the week.
Not my problem!
Margaret opened the fridge. Half a pack of cheese, three eggs, a heel of bread. Seven days until payday. Emmas leaflet money barely covered her own keep.
I can make an omelette, Emma offered.
With ham! Harry demanded.
We havent got any.
Well then, dont bother! Im sick of this rubbish food!
He stood, booting the chair behind him so it toppled with a bang.
Harry, leave it, murmured Emma.
Dont you start telling me what to do! He wheeled on her. Think youre better than me with your stupid uni, dont you?
No, I just
Oh, you do. You look at me like Im
Harry, please, calm down! Margaret stepped between them.
You shut up as well! Ive had enough of both of you! This place is like a prison! I hate this bloody dump!
No ones forcing you to stay, Margaret heard herself say.
Harry froze. Slowly, he turned to her.
What did you say?
Nothing. I didnt say anything.
You said no ones keeping me here? You want me gone, is that it?
Harry
Answer me! Is that what you want?
Margaret was silent. But in her heart, she wished it. Oh God, she truly wished it. Wished to wake to peace, not panic. To walk quietly through her own home, unafraid.
You dont answer? Wellsorry, but Im not going anywhere! This house is mine too!
Its in my name, she replied, voice steady.
So what? Im your son! Ive got rights!
You also have responsibilities, she answered quietly. Youre an adult. Twenty-five
For one long moment, everything was perfectly still. The only sounds were the soft, steady patter of rain against the window, and the quiet of two women, arms wrapped round one another, holding tight at last to the peace that had finally settled in their long-troubled home.
