Margaret always believed she’d been lucky in life. She met a good man early, married him, and spent over thirty years by his side in love and respect. Their daughter, Emily, was born—bright, headstrong, just like her mother in her youth. Everything seemed to follow its course. Until one day, death took Margaret’s husband. At first, it felt as if the world had collapsed. But then came the realization: she wasn’t just grieving her own loss, but also watching her daughter wreck her own life.
Emily fell for James. Blindly, recklessly. The first time Margaret met him, she knew—he wasn’t the one. His smile was too slick, his words too smooth, his actions too few. But Emily wouldn’t listen. She made her choice. Married him and moved him into her two-bed flat, inherited from her grandfather.
Margaret stayed out of it. She knew Emily was stubborn. Arguing would be pointless. Still, unease gnawed at her: James seemed like a parasite. He didn’t want to work properly, never lifted a finger at home. Even microwaving his own dinner was too much effort. Emily carried everything—working double shifts, then picking up extra jobs from home. James flitted between chasing the “perfect job” and occasional stints as a warehouse labourer.
When Emily got pregnant, things worsened. She quit her job, and James swore, “I’ll take care of everything.” Yet months later, he packed his bags and filed for divorce. Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, she thought, her daughter would see sense.
But Emily sobbed, terrified of being alone. Margaret comforted her, lent her money, brought groceries. She hoped time would heal her daughter’s judgment. Then, a year later, James returned. Knocked on the door with pretty words, apologies, tears. Emily let him in. Not just that—she gave him cash, took out a loan for his new phone, fed him, forgave him.
And then it happened again. A second child, new promises, another vanishing act. And another return. Emily kept believing. Margaret stopped scolding, just watched silently as her daughter inched closer to ruin. But when James left for the fourth time—and came back for the fifth—her patience snapped.
“If you let him in again,” she told Emily, “I won’t help you anymore. I’ll be there for the grandchildren—feed them, have them overnight, teach them—but I won’t pity you anymore.”
Emily just nodded silently, eyes downcast. Those eyes—as stubborn as Margaret’s had once been, but clouded now with a love that had burnt down to nothing but pain.
Now Margaret lives between two worlds: one with her grandchildren, clinging to them for strength; the other with her daughter, in whom she’s lost all faith. She’s tired of watching Emily break her own heart, again and again, welcoming back a man who doesn’t deserve her. James is like a wound that never heals—because someone keeps picking at it with dirty hands.
Sometimes Margaret wakes at night and wonders: Was I too soft? Should I have stepped in sooner, given an ultimatum, shouted? But then she might have lost her daughter entirely. Now she’s losing her slowly, just as surely.
Emily still lives with James. He’s left again—and promised to return. Margaret doesn’t ask when. She knows: Emily will open the door. But who will open her eyes? That’s a question with no answer.