My name is Elizabeth Johnson, and I live in a quiet corner of the lovely town of Stratford-upon-Avon. This morning, I awoke before my alarm to tidy the house while my son, Oliver, was still asleep. At 35, he’s been living under my roof for what feels like an eternity. The kitchen is stacked with dirty dishes, and the living room is cluttered with his old things, like remnants of a life paused indefinitely. I wish I could tell him, “It’s time you live your own life,” but every time, the words get stuck in my throat, and my heart clenches with fear.
When Oliver was young, I raised him on my own. His father left us, leaving me to play the roles of mother, father, and provider. I worried over every scrape he got on the playground, every poor grade he received at school, doing everything to make him feel safe at home. Over the years, that safety became his prison. He grew into adulthood, but his heart remained a child, sheltered under my wing. I didn’t notice how I had turned him into someone who waits for his mum to sort everything out.
One day, a friend asked for help moving some old furniture. I called out to Oliver, “Son, give us a hand!” He just shrugged and said, “Mum, I’ve got things to do, maybe another time?” and then buried himself in his endless video games. That moment mirrored our life: I’m willing to do anything for him while he lives under the illusion that I will always bail him out. My friends all say, “Lizzy, this is your house, your rules! Telling him to move out is the only way; otherwise, he’ll never learn to fend for himself.” Their words sting with truth, but the thought of closing the door behind him chills me to the bone. This is the same boy who ran to me with scraped knees, who cried when kids teased him at school, who waited for me to come home from work to have dinner together.
I find myself turning into a grumpy old woman, muttering every morning, “The rubbish hasn’t been taken out again; his things are everywhere.” My maternal instinct battles with the exhaustion of carrying this burden on my own. Oliver doesn’t hold a steady job; he does odd jobs but loses interest quickly. If he gets any money, it’s spent on his own enjoyment. I am embarrassed to count pennies, ashamed I can’t help him with significant expenses, but it’s more painful that he doesn’t even try to make my life easier.
A few days ago, I mustered the courage to talk to him. “Oliver, things need to change,” I said, my voice trembling. “Time is passing, and you’re standing still. I’m not going to be around forever; what will happen when I’m gone?” He frowned, got up silently, slammed the door, and locked himself in his room. It wasn’t a conversation. Inside, I felt like I was betraying him, tearing apart the love I built since his first steps. But the thoughts won’t leave me alone—perhaps my friends are right? Maybe it is time to let him go, even if it breaks my heart? Other women have children his age who have families of their own, raising kids, while I’m still making him shepherd’s pie, ironing his shirts, and listening to his empty promises that “tomorrow” things will change. This “tomorrow” has stretched for years, and without my action, nothing will move forward.
Sometimes I think it’s not about “throwing him out” but about finding the right words to spark his desire to live independently. But how to choose those words without causing hurt? He’s sensitive, carrying a mountain of fears and grievances inside, and perhaps my overprotectiveness has shackled him to this house. But I’m also human—I’m tired, I want peace, I want to live without the everlasting burden of responsibility for an adult son. Today, standing by the sink, I remembered how little Oliver used to help me unpack groceries, determined, even clumsy at five years old. Then, we were a team, a family. Now he’s a heavy weight on my shoulders, and I don’t know how to let him go.
Time is relentless. I believe that one day Oliver will find the strength to step into a world where there’s no safety net, where he’ll have to stand on his own two feet. But for that to happen, I need to do something I’m more terrified of than anything—find the courage. I don’t know how. But I understand it’s not cruelty; it’s my duty to give him the chance to grow, even if it costs us tears and mutual reproaches. When I finally tell him everything, I can’t predict what will happen. Maybe he will leave, slamming the door, cursing me for “betrayal”. Or perhaps he’ll find freedom and, years later, thank me. But one thing I know for sure: I can no longer bear this burden endlessly. This thought, a mix of fear and relief, hammers in my chest like a drum. A mother’s love is not only about care but also about knowing when to say, “Go your own way.” And I have to do it—for his sake and for mine.
