My name is Margaret Smith, and I reside in the charming town of Stratford-upon-Avon, where the peaceful lanes stretch quietly along the River Avon. As usual, I woke up before my alarm today to tidy up the house while my son, Matthew, is still asleep. He’s 35 and has been living under my roof for what feels like an eternity. The kitchen is piled high with dirty dishes, and the living room is cluttered with his old belongings, like a constant reminder that he’s stuck here. Life seems paused, like when someone leaves the TV on but forgets to watch it. I want to tell him, “It’s time to live your own life,” but whenever I try, the words catch in my throat, and my heart tightens with fear.
When Matthew was young, I raised him on my own. His father left, leaving me to switch between being the nurturing mother and the breadwinner. I worried over every scrape he got on the playground and every bad grade he brought home. I did everything to make him feel safe in our home. As years passed, this protection became his cage. He grew up physically, but his soul remained as sheltered as a child under my wing. I hadn’t realized I had turned him into a perpetual boy, waiting for mum to solve everything.
Once, a friend asked for help moving some old furniture. I called for Matthew, “Son, give us a hand!” He just shrugged and said, “Mum, I’ve got other things to do, maybe another time,” and dove into his computer games. This was a snapshot of our life: I’m ready to go to the ends of the earth for him, while he lives under the illusion that mum will always be there to help. Friends keep telling me, “Margaret, it’s your house, your rules! Making him leave is the only way he’ll start working and thinking for himself.” Their words sting with truth, but the thought of closing the door behind him makes me freeze with dread. This is the same child who ran to me with skinned knees, cried when teased at school, and waited for me to finish work so we could have dinner together.
I’m turning into a grumbling old woman, muttering every morning about the rubbish not being taken out or his things strewn about. My motherly instincts battle with the exhaustion of bearing it all alone. Matthew doesn’t hold down steady work—he takes on odd jobs but loses interest quickly. Any money he makes is spent on his entertainment. I feel ashamed counting pennies, embarrassed that I can’t support him with a major purchase, but it hurts more that he doesn’t even try to make my life easier.
A few days ago, I decided to have a talk. “Matthew, we need to make some changes,” I said with a trembling voice. “Time is passing by, and you’re stuck in one place. I’m not immortal; what will happen when I’m gone?” He frowned, got up without a word, slammed the door, and locked himself in his room. The conversation went nowhere, and I felt like I had betrayed him, dismantling the bond we built since his first steps. But those thoughts plague me: what if my friends are right? Maybe it’s time to let him go, even if it breaks my heart. Other women have children his age already settled with families of their own, while I continue to make his meals, iron his shirts, and listen to hollow promises that “tomorrow” everything will change. This “tomorrow” has stretched into years, and without my push, nothing will shift.
I sometimes think it’s not about “kicking him out,” but about finding the words to ignite a desire in him to live independently. Yet how do I phrase it without causing pain? He’s sensitive, harbouring a mountain of fears and grievances, and perhaps my overprotectiveness has chained him to this home. But I’m human, too—I’m tired, I crave peace, and I wish to live without the perpetual weight of responsibility for an adult son. Standing at the sink, I think back to little Matthew helping me put groceries away. He was just five, awkward but eager. We were a team, a family then. Now he’s a burden I carry, and I don’t know how to let him go.
Time waits for no one. I believe that one day Matthew will find the courage to step into a world where I am not his safety net, where he must stand on his own two feet. But to get there, I need to make a decision I fear the most. How do I muster that courage? I don’t know. Yet, I understand it’s not cruelty—it’s my duty to give him a chance to grow up, even if it costs us tears and blame. When I finally speak my mind, I can’t predict what will happen. He may leave, slamming the door, and curse me for “betraying” him. Or he might find freedom and, years later, thank me. But one thing is certain: I can’t carry this burden forever. It’s a mix of fear and relief pounding in my chest like a hammer. A mother’s love is not just about care, but also about knowing when to say, “Go your own way.” And I must do this—for his sake and for mine.
