Dear Diary,
Mother never seemed to care for us. Margaret, my mother, always thought her boys were dull, limited, rough and uncouthjust like their father.
Ma, whats for tea? shouted Henry, the eldest, his voice already deep enough for a man. A fuzz of hair grew on his chin, and his hands, long and thin at the wrists with thick, calloused fingers, clenched into a solid, sturdy fist, just like his father’s.
Margaret knew full well that Henry was chasing after the older widows in the villagewomen who had lost their husbands and now stared boldheartedly at any young man who passed. She warned one of them, Daisy, Dont let that boy fool you; hes barely fifteen. Daisy laughed out loud, her giggle echoing through the cottage, and Margarets face grew sour.
From that day on, Margaret stopped loving Henry. He began to remind her of his father: harddrinking, always smelling of bacon, garlic and cheap gin, his filthy hands everywhere they shouldnt be.
Hed taken every old maid in the hamlet. When Margaret tried to arrange a marriage for Henry, she was forced, she wept, and there was no one to defend herjust an old spinster, Mrs. Hargreaves, who was delighted to set Margaret up with anyone.
Why are you, girl, still wandering about? Mrs. Hargreaves would say. Look at Peterhes a strapping lad; all the girls swoon over him. If he only glanced their way, youd be lucky. Margaret would sob, Im leaving for Leeds, Ill work in the factory, get an education, and make something of myself.
The old woman barked, You think a city will save you? You shouldve stayed and married a proper man! Her blows were harsh, relentless, as though she were striking at a wound still fresh. Margaret never agreed with Peter; she knew nothing of love, only force.
Peter, older than Henry, took Margaret into his home. At first his motherinlaw protested, saying hed chosen the wrong bride, but she settled. She even pitied Margaret when Peter tormented her at night. Shes a weak girl, the motherinlaw muttered.
One by one, the village boysjust ladscame and went. Margaret loved them fiercely, until they grew up and turned into men like Peter. Then she became a harsh mother.
War took Peter, twisted him, and spat him out alive; many men never returned. The village saw a few new facesdarkhaired lads with sharp eyesafter the fighting. Margaret bore three more sons, none of whom brought a daughter into the world.
She never found a respite. At night, if a man lingered longer than he should, shed feel a pinch, a grab on her side, a squeeze that sent a shiver through her. She kept postponing intimacy, inventing chores to avoid the bedroom.
When Peter announced he was leaving to be with Lucy Barker, a widowed soldiers wife, Margaret finally exhaled. Henry fought with his father that day; Margaret bandaged his arm afterwards and patted his head as she had done when he was a child.
Let the boy go, she whispered. It wont matter.
Mother, dont worry, Henry stammered, well look after you. He was soon to be married himself, and Margaret tried not to imagine what he would do with his delicate, wideeyed bridejust as Peter had.
All of them grew up looking alike, one after another, each as rough as the last. Margaret hoped nature might spare her a gentle child, but it never did. A thin moustache sprouted on Henrys chin, his voice grew huskier, and she realised why shed never truly loved her sons: she thought she was a bad mother.
She thought perhaps a daughter would have changed things. The youngest son, Sam, was finally paired with a girl named Lily. Lily was a bright, sprightly thing, darting about the kitchen like a willow, her hair as fine as a braid.
One evening Sam emerged from his room, Lily pressed herself against him, clinging like a calf to its mother. She rested her head on his chest, and he brushed her hair, kissed her forehead gently, as a father might a newborn.
From then on Margaret kept a close eye on all her sons, watching whether any treated their wives as Peter had. She found none. No, she whispered, no more cruelty.
It took years for Margaret to understand that the boys shed feared were not monstersthey were simply men, flawed but capable of love. When Henry asked, Mother, is everything alright? she answered, All is well, dear. Speak if you need anything. His words came slowly; hed always been a man of few syllables.
Mother, youre not a bad mother, Lilys sister, Kate, said, trying to soothe her. Well have tea, maybe some scones, and well make it right.
By the time she had visited each of her children, Margaret was dragging her feet home, exhausted. She wondered if any of the daughters she never bore would have softened her heart. Six sons, she muttered to herself, maybe Im not so terrible after all.
At home Lily baked a fresh batch of crumpets. The scent filled the cottage, and Margarets eyes softened. Lily, could you give me a grandchild? she asked hopefuly. Lily laughed, Ill try, Mother, and later gave birth to two little girls, Olivia and Yvonne, who became the apple of Margarets eye.
Grandchildren, even if they resembled the village lads, were a welcome balm to her heart. She vowed, Ill raise these girls right, teach them well, and spare them the hurt I endured. She kept that promise; the girls grew up respectable, succeeded in their careers, and always remembered their grandmother with affection.
So, dear diary, I see now that love is not about perfect children or flawless sons. It is about the effort we make, the forgiveness we grant, and the hope we hold for the next generation. I have learned that a mothers love, even when muddled, can still be a guiding lightif only we let it shine.
