Dear Diary,
Mother always claimed she loved everyone, yet I could see the hollowness in her eyes. Margaret never truly cared for her boys; she thought them dull, limited, rude, and uncouthjust like their father, a roughhanded man who reeked of bacon, garlic, and homebrewed whisky.
Mum, whats for dinner? shouted Henry, the eldest at fifteen, his voice already deepening. A tuft of hair sprouted on his chin, and his hands, long and thin with knobby fingers, folded into a solid fist just like his father’s.
I knew Henry was already prowling the village, eyeing the older widows whod lost the comfort of a husband. They would stare at the young lads with a brazen invitation, as if daring them to approach. Margaret once warned one of them, Daisy, Dont let that boy get near you; hes barely a child. Daisy laughed cruelly, a sound that made Margarets stomach churn. From that day on, Margarets affection for Henry waned; he reminded her of his fatheralways meddling, always smelling of tallow and spirits, always thrusting his dirty hands wherever he pleased.
She tried to marry him off, dragging him from one match to the next, even forcing a union with a reluctant girl named Susan. Susan wept and begged to leave for the city, to work in a factory and learn a trade, but the old crone in the cottage barked, What are you thinking, girl? Youll never find a proper husband if you turn your back on us. The woman struck Susan harshly, as if she were breaking a stubborn mule. Susans cries turned into a hollow silence, and Margaret thought perhaps the boy had finally taken his place beside Peter, the next son.
Peter was older, a hulking man who brought Susan into his home. His mother-inlaw first complained that hed chosen the wrong bride, then, after a few weeks, she settled and even pitied Susan when Peter tormented her at night. Children fell out of the village like peas, one after anotherevery one a boy. Margaret loved them fiercely, all of them, until they grew up and turned into copies of Peter. Then she turned into a harsh mother herself.
The war ripped Peter apart, sending him to the front where he never returned. Three of her sons went, and only a few blackhaired lads shuffled back, eyes empty as berries. Margaret herself bore three more boys, but never a daughter. She whispered to herself, If only one girl had come. The thought haunted her, especially when the men she loved never came home, and the night became a specter that pinched and grabbed at her.
When Peter announced he would leave to be with a widow named Lucy, Margaret felt a weight lift. Henry fought with his father that night; later, with a bandaged hand, Margaret patted his head as she once did when I was a child. Let him go, love, she murmured. Dont worry, Mum, well manage, Henry stammered, already planning his own marriage to a delicate, wideeyed girl. Margaret tried not to dwell on what the future might bring for that tender blossom.
She watched her sons closely, fearing they might become as cruel as Peter. No, not like him, she whispered, Not my boys. Yet she knew, as her voice grew hoarse and a whisker appeared on her chin, that she had never truly loved them when they grew into men; she saw herself as a bad mother.
The last boy, Sam, lingered in the marriage market for years, hoping for a different fate. At last a bright girl named Lily appeared, darting about the kitchen like a supple vine. When Sam stepped out of the bedroom, Lily didnt shrink away; she clung to him like a calf to its mother, pressing her head against his chest. He brushed her hair and kissed her forehead gently, as a mother would a child.
Margaret began to keep a careful eye on all her sons, checking whether they treated their wives with kindness or force. No, she prayed, Never again. She wondered if she had been blind for all those years, missing the cruelty that seeped into her children.
One afternoon Henry came home, his face weary from work. Alls well, Mother? he asked. Anything wrong with the new daughterinlaw? his voice trembled. His wife, Kitty, replied, Everythings fine, Mum. We just missed your visits. Margaret sighed, realizing how far she had come from the woman who once shouted for a meal.
She turned to Lily, hoping for a grandchild. Will you have a baby for me, love? she asked. Lily laughed, Of course, Grandma, and soon she bore two little girls, Olivia and Yvonne, the loveliest darlings any granny could wish for. The house filled with their giggles, and Margarets heart, once as cold as stone, softened.
Now, looking back, I see that I loved my children in a twisted way, laced with fear and disappointment. I have forgiven Peter for his sins long ago, and even felt a flicker of affection for him. As I sit here, the scent of fresh scones drifting from the kitchen, I realize that love, however tangled, is still my burden and my blessing.
Margaret.
