**Helplessness and Confusion**
I left the church feeling heavy-hearted, yet clinging to a fragile hope. Tears had streaked my cheeks as I begged God for a child. Oliver and I had been married for over ten years, and still, no baby came. So, I began attending services, pleading, praying. A decade together, and not a single pregnancy.
How many tears had I shed? How many doctors had I visited, only to hear the same empty reassurance:
“Youre perfectly healthythese things happen. You just need to wait Perhaps the time isnt right yet.”
“But how much longer, Oliver?” Id murmur, searching his face. “A family isnt complete without a child.”
He felt it too. He longed for an heir, especially with his thriving business. We lived comfortably, wanted for nothingexcept a child.
“Lillian,” he suggested one evening, “what if we adopted? A little one from a childrens homewe could raise them as our own.”
“No,” I insisted. “I want to carry my own. Why wont the doctors find something wrong?”
Then, miraculously, it happened. Whether God took pity or fate finally relented, I was pregnant. The joy was boundless. The pregnancy was difficult, but Id endure anything for this long-awaited child.
Timothy was born frail, often ill, but we doted on him day and night. As he grew, we shielded him from everythingeven other children, terrified hed catch something. I took him on walks far from playgrounds, wrapped him in cotton wool.
Nothing was too good for him. By four, he already had a tablet; by seven, an expensive mobile for school. Whatever he wanted, he received. Yet the older he grew, the more unbearable he became.
Oliver was always at work, while I stayed homefetching Timothy from school, cooking only what he demanded. If I dared serve something else, hed sneer:
“What is this rubbish? Im not eating it. I dont want bangers and mash!” Then hed dump an entire salt shaker into his plate, demanding his favourite soup instead.
At thirteen, he became unmanageable. I confided in Oliver, but he just sighed.
“Its just a phase, Lillian. Teenage lads are like this. Well get through it.”
One evening, Oliver came home with a gift. “Tim, got you a new phone!”
Our son emerged from his room, snatched the boxthen erupted.
“Are you serious? I told you which one I wanted! Only losers have this model. You want me to be a laughingstock?” He hurled it across the room and slammed the door.
Oliver and I exchanged stunned glances.
“See what I mean?” I whispered. He had no reply.
The same went for clothes, shoeswe couldnt buy a thing without his approval, or hed throw a fit. Then the school rang.
I knew it wasnt good.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” his teacher began, “thank you for coming. We need to discuss Timothys behaviour. He insults staff, disrupts lessons, then smirks and threatens to report *us* for violating his rights. He lends classmates his phone, then demands payment. He forces others to do his homework.”
My face burned with shame.
“Please,” the teacher urged, “rein him in.”
I apologised and promised to try. Walking home, I realised with horror that I was afraidafraid I might snap and slap him.
*Where did I go wrong? We adored him. How could love and care breed cruelty? Why had our golden boy turned so vile?*
We couldnt control one child. Next door, the Wilsons had fournever a raised voice, always polite. Their eldest even helped me carry shopping. Once, I asked Margaret her secret.
“Oh, its nothing,” shed said. “My husband grew up in a big family. He always says more children mean more harmony. They help each other.”
I listened, quietly envious.
That afternoon, Timothy stormed in, flung his bag, kicked off his trainers.
“Schools rubbish. Teachers are rubbish. Mum, I *told* you to keep my door shut! Stay out!”
I stayed silent, still reeling from the meeting. His temper was constantseething, blaming everyone.
I laid the table, waiting. When he didnt come, I peeked into his roomand froze.
He was standing there, slowly slicing his expensive leather jacket with scissors, smirking at me.
“Like it? This is what you get for going to school. Ooh, the teacher called! Big deal. You say this jackets expensive? Buy me a better oneor Ill do it again.”
He kept cutting, taunting. Something in me broke. I slapped himhard.
He staggered, clutching his cheek. Instantly, I regretted it, reaching to hug himbut his glare stopped me cold.
“Right. Watch this.”
He grabbed his phone.
“Police? My mum just hit me. Yes, my *real* mum. Get here now.”
When the officer arrived, he frowned at our pristine home, at Timothys sneer.
“Must be a mistake?”
“No mistake,” Timothy spat. “She hit me. Punish her.”
The officerused to drunken parents, neglected kidslooked baffled.
“Bit of a row, son. Sort it out.”
“No!” Timothy shrieked. “I know my rights! If you leave, Ill report *you* for neglect!”
The officer turned to me, stunned.
“Take him,” I said wearily. “Maybe itll change something.”
Two days later, social services arrived. They listened to Timothys demands to punish me, took one look at my exhaustion, and understood.
“Pack your things, Timothy,” they said. “Youre coming with us.”
“Where?”
“Residential care. Since youre being mistreated here, we must act.”
His bravado vanished.
Oliver went alone to fetch him. He barely recognised our sonquiet, subdued.
“Dad are you taking me home for good?”
“Thats up to you.”
“I want to stay.”
Back home, Timothy exhaled.
“Its so good here Mum, DadIm sorry. I was awful. I pushed you. Please forgive me.”
I smiled faintly. “Welcome home, love. Dinners ready.”
