“Stay out of my family,” said the son, and blocked my number.
“Mum, how many times? Im a grown man!” Tom tugged nervously at his hoodie strings, standing in the hallway with a bag slung over his shoulder.
“Where on earth are you going in this weather? Its pouring out there!” Margaret glanced out the window, where heavy raindrops slid down the glass. “And Ive made dinneryour favourite roast. Cant it wait?”
“Mum, Im thirty. Thirty! And you still track my every move like Im fifteen.”
Margaret sighed, clutching a tea towel to her chest. He was right, of course. But letting go was hardhe was her only child, the one shed waited years for, especially after David left them.
“I just worry about you. You havent been yourself since the divorce with Emily. Youve been so closed off. Maybe we could talk?”
“Talk about what?” Tom zipped up his jacket. “Im fine. Just going to Bens to watch the match. You know Benweve been mates since school.”
“I know Ben. Good lad. Remember when you two built that den in the garden with old planks?” Margaret smiled at the memory. “I used to bring you lemonade and sandwiches…”
“Mum, Im running late.”
He reached for the door, but she caught his sleeve.
“Wait! What if Sophies there? Bens wife might invite friends. You wouldnt mind meeting someone nice, would you?”
“For heavens sake” Tom groaned, shaking his head. “Mum, enough! Ill sort my own love life.”
“Im not interfering! I just want you happy, settled, with a family of your own…”
She trailed off as his face darkened. Children were still a sore subject after the divorce.
Tom yanked the door open and left, slamming it behind him. Margaret stood frozen in the hallway, the tea towel still pressed to her chest.
She switched off the oven, the roast forgotten. Eating alone held no appeal. Shed reheat it later, if he came home. *If.*
Sinking onto a stool, she stared at the empty kitchen. Once, this room had been full of lifeDavid reading the paper, Tom doing homework at the table, her bustling at the hob. Now, just silence, broken only by rain tapping against the windowsill.
The phone rang. Margaret snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Margie, its me, Susan. How are you, love? Not brooding, I hope?”
Susan had been her closest friend since college, the only one who truly understood.
“Oh, just another row with Tom. I dont know how to talk to him anymore. Everything I say is wrong.”
“What set it off this time?”
“The usual. Asked where he was going, and he bit my head off. As if Im some sort of villain.”
“Margie, have you ever considered that maybe he *is* struggling? A thirty-year-old man shouldnt still be living with his mum…”
“But where else would he go? He cant afford rent on his salary, and buying a place aloneyou know how impossible that is.”
“I do. But maybe hes not trying because its easy with you? You still cook for him, clean for him, fuss over him like hes a boy.”
Margaret opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Susan was right. She *was* still treating her son like a child.
“But Im his mother! How can I *not* care?”
“Theres caring, and then theres smothering. My Chris moved to Manchester at twenty-five. I miss him, but I had to let him go.”
After hanging up, Margaret sat for a long time, thinking. Maybe Susan had a point. Maybe she *was* holding on too tight.
Tom came home late, near midnight. He went straight to his room without a word. She heard him shuffling about, drawers opening and closing.
Breakfast was silent. Tom scrolled through his phone, ignoring the omelette shed made.
“Tom, remember when Dad took you to the zoo? You loved the elephants best,” she ventured.
“Yeah.” He didnt look up.
“And your first day of schoolso serious with your little backpack…”
“Mum, why are you bringing this up?”
“Just… time flies. One day youre small, the next youre a man.”
He finally met her eyes, exhaustion in his gaze.
“If you *know* Im a man, why do you treat me like a kid?”
“I dont”
“You rang Ben last night to check if I was really there. Did you think I wouldnt find out?”
Margaret flushed. She *had* calledjust to be sure he was safe.
“I was worried”
“Mum, Im *thirty*. Ive been married. We tried for kids. Im not some teenager!”
“But”
“But what? You think because I live here, you get to monitor my every move?”
Tears pricked her eyes. She *didnt* mean harm. She just loved him. Always had.
“I only want whats best”
“I know. But your *best* is suffocating me. I cant do this anymore.”
He drained his coffee and stood.
“Dont wait up. Staying at Bens.”
“But dinnerI thought Id make your favourite sausages…”
“Skip the sausages.” He grabbed his jacket and left.
“Tom, wait!” She chased him to the door. “Why are we fighting? Ill ease up, I promise”
“Mum, its not about that.” He turned. “I need *space*. My own life.”
“But Ill be *alone*!” The words burst out. “Dad left, now youwhat am I supposed to do?”
“I dont know. But I cant be your whole world. Its not healthy.”
The door slammed. Margaret mechanically cleared his half-eaten breakfast, her hands shaking.
Days passed in a fog. She called Susan, ranting, but her friend took Toms side.
“Margie, think how *he* feels. All his mates have their own places, families. Its embarrassing for him.”
“But Im not *stopping* him! He wont leave!”
“Are you sure? Youve made it clear youd fall apart without him.”
Margaret wanted to argue, but the truth stung. She *had* clung to him, terrified of being left behind.
Tom didnt come home that night. Or the next. She resisted calling until the third day.
“Hello?” His voice was flat.
“Tom, its me. Where are you?”
“Bens. Like I said.”
“How… how long will you stay?”
“Dunno. Till I find a flat.”
“But thats such a waste! Youve got a home here”
“Mum. Weve been over this.”
Silence.
“Tom, lets talk. Come over, Ill make lunch”
“Cant. Busy.”
“With *what*? Its the weekend!”
“Mum”
“Just tell me! Im *worried*!”
“Thats *why* I left. You turn every little thing into a drama.”
“But *Im your mother*!”
“And Im an *adult*! I dont owe you a play-by-play of my life!”
“Just”
“No. Listen. Stay out of my family.”
“Your *what*?” Her voice cracked.
“Im seeing someone. And I wont let you interrogate her like you did Emily. No unsolicited advice. No hourly check-ins.”
“Tom”
“I mean it. Either back off, or were done.”
The floor seemed to drop beneath her.
“You cant say that… Im your *mum*…”
“Then *act* like one. Kids need to be let go. Youve trapped me.”
“Its not a trap! Its *home*!”
“For you. For me, its a prison.”
The line went dead. She sat on his bed, surrounded by his thingsbooks, school trophies, band posters shed hated but tolerated. A framed photo sat on the nightstand: Tom at seven, gap-toothed, laughing, arms around her neck. Hed adored her once, told her everything…
When had that changed?
She remembered his wedding to Emily. Shed been thrilleda daughter-in-law at last! Shed baked for her, offered tips, tried to bond…
But Emily was cold. Polite, but distant. And Tom grew quieter around her.
“Mum, call before you visit,” hed said once. “Emily doesnt like surprises.”
Shed bitten her tongue, called every time. Still, Emilys frost never thawed.
“Shes slow to warm up,” Tom would say.
But years passed, and nothing changed. WorseEmily *loathed* her. When Margaret learned shed forbidden Tom from giving her a spare key, the war began.
“Tom, Id *never* intrude! Only in emergencies!”
“Mum, were fine on our own.”
“But what if?”
“*Nothing* will happen.”
Then, the visits dwindled. Holidays became rushed affairs.
“Weve got plans,” Tom would say.
“*An hour*? Thats all the time you have?”
“Weve got our own lives,” Emily would cut in. “You should respect that.”
Margaret *hated* that phrase. “*Own lives*”as if she had no right to want her son near.
The divorce had almost been a relief. Tom came home, and she could care for him again. He was withdrawn, but she hoped time would heal him.
She cooked his favourites, didnt pry, made the house cosy. Slowly, he opened up.
“Emily and I wanted different things,” he admitted one night. “She cared about her career, money. I just wanted a family.”
“*Exactly*,” Margaret had said fiercely. “She never appreciated you.”
“Or you,” hed added. “Said you were always around.”
Margaret had seethed. How *dare* that woman dictate her relationship with her own son?
A year passed. Tom seemed to move on, but she saw the lonelinessthe family hed wanted, still out of reach.
“Tom, maybe you should start dating?” shed suggested once. “Susans neighbours lovely. A nurse. Pretty, kind”
“Mum, *no*.”
“But why not? Just meet her!”
“I said *no*!”
Shed dropped it, only to bring it up again days later.
“Maybe meet someone at work? The gym?”
“*Stop*.”
“I just want you *happy*! A family of your own!”
“The family I have is enough. Living with you suits me fine.”
The words shouldve warmed her. Instead, unease prickled. Did he *want* to stay forever? What about *his* life?
But the fear faded. He was *here*. That was what mattered.
Until he wasnt. Late nights, weekends at Bens. Questions made him shut down.
“Whats going on with you?” shed asked the day he left for the match. “You used to tell me everything…”
“I was *ten* then, Mum.”
“But we were *close*! You *trusted* me!”
“I still do. But trust doesnt mean reporting my every move.”
“Its not an *inquisition*! Im *interested*!”
“Your *interest* feels like surveillance.”
Thats when shed snappedgrabbed his sleeve, babbled about Sophie, whatever girl might be at Bens…
Now he was gone. The phone stayed silent for days. On the fourth, she cracked.
“The number you have dialled is currently unavailable,” the automated voice said.
Odd. Tom *never* switched his phone off. Battery dead? Or something worse?
She dug out Bens number.
“Ben, its Margaret. Is Tom there?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Hughes. He moved out three days ago. Got his own place.”
“*What*? Why didnt he *tell* me?”
“Dunno. Guess he wanted to tell you himself…”
Her hands shook as she hung up. His own flat. *Without a word*. What if he was ill? Whod look after him?
She redialled Toms number. This time: “*This number is no longer in service*.”
Her heart lurched. Hed changed his number. *And not given her the new one*.
She rushed to Susans.
“Hes *gone*! Changed his number! Like Im some *enemy*!”
“Margie, breathe. Sit. Have tea.”
“*Tea*? Susan, hell *starve* without me! Wholl cook? Wholl *wash his socks*?”
“Hes *thirty*. Not a toddler.”
“But”
“No *buts*. You smothered him.”
“I just *loved* him!”
“Love can be freedom. Or a cage. You chose the cage.”
“What was I *supposed* to do? After David left, Tom was all I had!”
“*Thats* the problem. Kids arent meant to be your *entire* life. You need your own.”
“What life? Im *fifty-five*!”
“And? Look at Mrs. Carter from number twelve. Sixty-two, does line dancing, goes to book club. *Living*.”
“Shes got no husband, no kids”
“And you *do*? Davids gone. Toms left. What nowsit and wait?”
Susan was right, but admitting it terrified her. Had everything shed done *hurt* him? Had love *broken* him?
The week blurred by. Work, meals for one, TV she didnt watch.
Then, Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. Margaret raced to answer, hope soaring.
A stranger stood therea pretty blonde, mid-twenties, kind-eyed.
“Hello. Mrs. Hughes?”
“Yes…”
“Im Charlotte. Tom and I… were together. May I come in?”
Margaret stepped aside, heart hammering.
“Kitchens through here. Tea?”
“Thank you.”
They sat opposite each other, Margaret studying her. Polished. Well-spoken. Why had Tom hidden her?
“Mrs. Hughes, I came to talk. Tom hasnt told you much…”
“No. Hes not speaking to me.”
“I know. And I know why.” Charlotte folded her hands. “Were getting married.”
Margarets chest tightened.
“Married… He never *mentioned* you…”
“Because hes scared. He told me how you were with Emily. How you control his life.”
“I dont *control*” Margaret bristled.
“I get it. You love him. But your love… *chokes* him.”
“Youre *not* his mother!”
“No. But I love him, and I see how torn he isbetween being a good son and living his life.”
Margaret clenched her fists. This *girl*, lecturing *her* on motherhood!
“What do you *want*?”
“For you to let go. Truly. No daily calls. No drop-ins. No unasked-for advice.”
“And in return?”
“A son who visits because he *wants* to. A daughter-in-law who doesnt see you as competition. Maybe grandchildren.”
“Grandchildren…” The word tasted sweet.
“Yes. But only if you let us live *our* way.”
Charlotte stood, adjusting her handbag.
“Think about it, Mrs. Hughes. Tom loves you. But he cant stay your little boy forever.”
After she left, Margaret sat for hours, thoughts whirling. Anger at Charlottewho was *she* to dictate? Fear for Tomhad she truly lost him?
Then, slowly, a strange calm settled. Something *clicked*.
*If I love him, I have to let go.*
The next day, she dialled the number Charlotte had left.
“Hello?” Toms voice was wary.
“Tom… Its me. I wont interfere. Just know the doors always open. I love you. And… if Charlottes willing, Id like to meet her properly.”
Silence. Then, softly:
“Thanks, Mum. That… means a lot.”
And in that moment, Margaret understood: she wasnt losing a sonshe was giving him a chance to be happy. And maybe, for the first time in yearsherself too.
