**Helplessness and Confusion**
**Diary Entry**
I left the church today feeling sombre yet clinging to a fragile hope. With tears in my eyes, Id begged God to grant me a child. Edward and I have been married for over ten years, and still, nothing. So, I started attending services, pleading in prayer. A decade of marriage, and not a single pregnancy.
How many tears have I shed? How many doctors have I seen? All they ever say is, *”Youre healthy, these things happenjust wait. The time hasnt come yet.”*
*”But how long, Edward? How much longer?”* I asked him, desperate. *”A family isnt whole without a child.”*
Edward suffered too. He dreamed of an heir, especially now that his business thrived. We lacked for nothingexcept a child.
*”Charlotte,”* he suggested once, *”what if we adopted? A little one, to raise as our own.”*
*”No, Edward,”* I insisted. *”I want to bear my own child. The doctors say Im finewhy wont it happen?”*
Then, miraculously, it did. Whether God took pity or fate finally relented, I fell pregnant. The joy was boundless, even as the pregnancy wore me down. Id endure anything for this long-awaited baby.
Oliver was born frail, often ill, but we doted on him, fussing day and night. As he grew, we shielded him from everythingeven other children, terrified hed catch something. I walked him far from playgrounds.
Nothing was too good for Oliver. By four, he had a tablet; by his first day of school, the latest phone. Whatever he wanted, he got. But the older he grew, the worse his temper became.
Edward was always at work. I stayed home, ferrying Oliver to and from school, cooking only what he demanded. If I dared make anything else, hed sneer, *”Whats this rubbish? I wont eat it. I dont want stew!”* Then hed dump salt into the bowl and demand his favourite soup.
At thirteen, he became unbearable. I told Edward, but he just sighed. *”Its just a phase, Charlotte. Hell grow out of it.”*
One evening, Edward came home with a gift. *”Oliver, I got you a new phone!”*
Oliver stormed out, snatched the box, and within minutes, his voice rang out, furious. *”This is rubbish! I told you which one I wanted! Only losers have this model. You want me to be laughed at?”* He hurled it across the room and slammed the door.
Edward and I exchanged bewildered glances. *”I warned you,”* I whispered. He had no reply.
It was the same with clothes, shoeswe never bought anything without his approval, or hed erupt. Then his form teacher called me in.
I knew it couldnt be good. *”Whats Oliver done now?”* I didnt even want to ask him.
*”Mrs. Whitmore,”* the teacher began, *”thank you for coming. We need to discuss Olivers behaviour. He insults teachers, disrupts class, then smirks and claims he knows his rightsthreatens to report us. He lends his phone to classmates, then extorts money or makes them do his homework.”*
Humiliation burned through me. I stood there, flushed, my ears ringing.
*”Please,”* the teacher said gently, *”rein him in.”*
I apologised and promised to try. Walking home, I realisedI was afraid. Afraid Id snap and slap him.
*Where did I go wrong?* Edward and I adored him. How could love and care breed such cruelty? Why had our golden child become so vileaggressive, disrespectful, unbearable? Hed been so wanted.
**We couldnt control our only son.**
I didnt understand. Our neighbours, the Harrisons, had four childrennever a shout, always polite. Their eldest boys even carried my shopping if they saw me struggling. Once, I asked Mrs. Harrison how she managed.
*”Its normal,”* she said. *”My husband grew up in a big familymore kids mean more peace, strangely. They help each other. Its not hard.”*
I envied her. Not once had I heard a harsh word from those children.
Oliver came home, flung his bag down, kicked off his designer trainers, and snarled, *”I told you to keep my door shut. Stay out!”*
I stayed silent, still reeling from the teachers words. He was always angry, always blaming everyone else.
I set the table, but he didnt come. I found him in his room, slowly slicing his expensive leather jacket with scissors, smirking at me. My stomach dropped.
*”Thats for going to school. So what if the teacher called? Bet you loved that. Oh, its expensivewell, buy me a better one, or Ill wreck that too.”*
He kept cutting, taunting me. I snappedslapped him hard. He clutched his cheek, stunned. For a second, I wanted to hug him, soothe him. But his glare froze me.
*”Oh, so thats how it is?”* He grabbed his phone. *”Police? My mother just hit me. Yes, my own mother. Hurry!”*
When the officer arrived, he frowned at our lavish flat, then at Oliver. *”I think Ive got the wrong address?”*
*”No, you havent!”* Oliver shouted. *”She hit me. I want her punished!”*
The officerused to drunken parents, neglected kidslooked baffled. *”You had a row. Sort it out.”* He turned to leave.
*”No! I know my rights. If you leave, Ill report you too!”*
The officer stared at me. *”Take him,”* I said wearily. *”Maybe itll change something.”*
Later, Oliver returned, smirking. *”Now youll dance to my tune.”* Edward, home by then, knew everything.
**He demanded they punish his mother.**
The next day, social services arrived. They took one look at Olivers tantrum and my pale face and understood.
*”Pack your things, Oliver,”* they said. *”Youre coming with us.”*
*”Where?”* he scoffed.
*”A temporary care home. If youre being mistreated, we must act.”*
His face fell. He had no choice. As they left, one woman whispered to me, *”Ill call you.”*
When the door shut, I collapsed into a chair. *”Edward, I never imagined this. But its our only chance.”*
Oliver rang the next day. *”Mum, get me out! The foods disgusting, they took my things”*
*”We cant. Our parental rights are suspended for two weeks.”* I hung up.
We hoped the harsh reality would teach him. The social worker had said, *”I knew who the troublemaker was. Spoilt children turn cruel when lifes too easy.”*
Edward visited alone. He barely recognised Oliverquiet, calm, no smirk in sight.
*”Dad are you taking me home for good?”*
*”Do you want to stay?”*
*”No. I want to come home.”*
Back at our door, Oliver sighed. *”Its so good to be home Mum, Dad, Im sorry. I was awful. I provoked you. Please forgive me.”*
*”Welcome back, son,”* I said. *”Dinners ready.”*
