My name is Emily Turner, and I reside in a small village along the River Thames. This morning, as usual, I woke up ahead of my alarm to tidy up the house while my son, James, still snoozed. He’s 35 years old and seems like he’s been living with me forever. In the kitchen, there’s a heap of dirty dishes, and the living room is littered with his old belongings, reminders that he’s stuck here. It’s as if life hit pause, and someone forgot to switch off the TV. I want to tell him, “It’s time to live your own life,” but the words get caught in my throat, and fear grips my heart.
When James was a child, I raised him on my own. His father left us, and I had to be both a mother and a father, as well as the breadwinner. I worried about every scrape he got on the playground, every failing grade in school. I did everything to make him feel safe in our home. But as the years passed, that safety became his cage. He grew physically, but his soul remained that of a child, sheltered under my wing. I didn’t even notice how I turned him into an eternal boy waiting for his mum to solve everything.
One day, a friend asked me to help move some old furniture. I called James: “Son, give us a hand!” But he just shrugged, “Mum, I’m busy, maybe another time?” and then buried himself in his computer games. That moment mirrored our life: I’m ready to do anything for him, and he lives in the illusion that Mum will always save the day. My friends all say, “Emily, it’s your home, your rules! Kicking him out is the only way; otherwise, he’ll never start working or living independently.” Their words sting with truth, but when I imagine closing the door behind him, a chill runs through me. After all, this is the boy who ran to me with skinned knees, cried when teased at school, and waited for me to come home so we could dine together.
I find myself turning into a grumbling old woman. Every morning, I mutter, “Didn’t take out the trash again, clothes everywhere.” My maternal instinct wrestles with the weariness of carrying everything on my own. James doesn’t have a steady job—he takes odd jobs but quickly loses interest. Any money he makes vanishes into his entertainments. I’m ashamed of counting pennies, embarrassed that I can’t help him with a significant purchase, but it hurts even more that he doesn’t try to lighten my load.
A few days ago, I decided to have a talk. “James, something’s got to change,” I said, my voice trembling. “Time’s moving on, and you’re standing still. I’m not going to be around forever; what happens when I’m gone?” He frowned, got up silently, slammed the door, and locked himself in his room. The conversation went nowhere, leaving me feeling as though I’m betraying him, tearing down the love built from his first steps. But the thoughts won’t leave me alone: maybe my friends are right? Perhaps it’s time to let him go, even if it breaks my heart? Other women have children his age who’ve long had families, raising their own little ones, while I’m still making him meals, ironing shirts, and listening to empty promises that “tomorrow” everything will change. That “tomorrow” has stretched out for years, and nothing will shift without my action.
Sometimes I think it’s not about kicking him out but finding the words that will awaken his desire to live independently. But how to choose them without causing hurt? He’s sensitive, harboring a mountain of fears and grievances, and maybe my excessive care has chained him to this home. But I’m also just a person; I’m exhausted, yearning for peace, to live without the perpetual burden of responsibility for an adult son. Today, standing at the sink, I recalled how little James used to help me put groceries away. He was about five then, trying his best despite being clumsy. Back then, we were a team, a family. Now he’s a heavy stone on my shoulders, and I don’t know how to shake him off.
Time is relentless. I believe that one day James will find the courage to step into a world without my safety net, where he’ll have to stand on his own. But for that to happen, I need to take a step I’m most afraid of. How do I muster such courage? I don’t know. But I understand: it isn’t cruelty but my duty to give him a chance to grow up, even if it costs us tears and mutual accusations. When I finally tell him everything, I can’t predict what will happen. Maybe he’ll leave, slamming the door, cursing me for “betrayal.” Maybe he’ll find freedom and thank me after years. But I know for sure: I can’t carry this burden indefinitely. This thought—a mix of fear and relief—pounds 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 mine.
