“Do what I want, when I want. This is my flat too. Don’t like it? Leave!” James snapped, glowering at his mother.
Margaret stepped outside the building, tears clouding her vision. She trudged to the park bench by the children’s playground and sank onto it, pulling her coat tighter. Though mid-June, the evenings were still chilly, the promised heatwave nowhere in sight.
She hunched her shoulders and stuffed her hands into her pockets. Sit here until she froze—then what? Where could she go? She’d lived long enough to be thrown out by her own son. A helpless sob escaped her. She’d spent her whole life in this house—married here, brought her son home from the hospital here. Her boy…
***
“Mum, the class is going to York for the bank holiday weekend,” Jamie announced as he kicked off his trainers in the hallway.
“Mum? You listening?” He stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her peel potatoes at the sink. The stiff set of her shoulders told him the trip wasn’t happening. Still, he tried again.
“Mum, can I have some money?” He raised his voice over the running tap.
“How much?” she asked without turning.
“Train tickets both ways, hostel, meals, museum fees…” he recited flatly.
“How. Much?” Margaret repeated sharply, tossing a peeled potato into the pan. Water splashed her face and dampened her blouse.
In frustration, she slammed the peeler down and spun to face him.
Jamie lowered his head and slunk to his room.
“I don’t have money to throw around. It doesn’t grow on trees. You need new shoes for autumn—those barely lasted through spring. And your coat sleeves are halfway to your elbows,” her voice chased him down the hall, shoving at his back.
Jamie shut his door. Her words still seeped through, muffled but relentless.
“Everyone’s going except me,” he muttered. “I want to go to York too!” His voice cracked, tears pressing at the edges.
She probably hadn’t heard, but it felt like she answered:
“You’ll travel when you’re older. Get a job, save up, go to America if you want,” she called from the kitchen.
Jamie swallowed hard.
“And why don’t you ask your father? He never bought you so much as a proper birthday present. Barely paid child support. What can I afford on those scraps?” The kitchen rant continued.
Jamie jammed his headphones on, but her voice still pierced through. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? When his dad left, he’d said to call if he ever needed help. Well, now he did. But Jamie didn’t have a mobile.
He cracked his door open and peeked out. His mum was clattering dishes in the kitchen, muttering to herself. Silently, he slipped into the hallway, pulled on his trainers, and eased the front door shut behind him. He raced downstairs and darted to the next building—Charlie Townsend had a landline.
Charlie grinned when he opened the door.
“I need to make a call,” Jamie said, grabbing the receiver from the hall table. He dialled quickly, catching his breath as it rang.
He almost hung up when someone answered.
“Dad, hey!” Jamie blurted.
“Who’s this?” came the guarded reply.
Jamie met Charlie’s confused stare, then turned away.
“It’s me. Jamie.”
“Jamie who?”
“Dad?!” Jamie shouted in disbelief, but the line went dead.
He put the phone down, blinking back tears.
“What happened?” Charlie asked.
“Not going to York. Mum won’t pay, and Dad just bailed.”
“Wait—I’ll ask my parents. Say it’s important. They’ll give me the cash,” Charlie offered.
Jamie shook his head. “They’d find out. Forget it.” He left without another word.
When Jamie was little, his mum had kissed his scrapes, called him “sunshine,” bought toys without him asking.
Then something changed. After his dad left, she became sharp-tongued and quick to snap. Slapped him when he misbehaved, never a kind word—just scolding and smacks. A slap stung, but a cold shoulder hurt worse.
He’d thought about running away. But at eleven, with no money, where would he go?
*I never asked to be born. Should’ve been Charlie’s parents’ kid instead. They’ve got it easy…*
By fourteen, he tuned out her yelling. He roamed the streets or locked himself in his room, music blasting.
In sixth form, he sought comfort elsewhere—girls, mostly. If one refused to kiss him, he dropped her instantly, just like he wanted to drop his mother. Home was just a place to sleep. Nights were long, spent staring at the ceiling, cursing his life.
He barely studied but scraped by with passing grades. Tried it all—fags, beer, vodka, even weed. Money ran dry before addiction could take hold.
One night, he stumbled home at half one. His mum was waiting in the hall, screaming before he’d even shut the door. When she raised her hand, he caught her wrist and squeezed until she gasped.
“Don’t you *dare* shout at me!” He shoved her arm away and stormed off, slamming his door so hard plaster rained from the ceiling.
But not before he saw the fear in her eyes.
She never raised a hand again, though the shouting didn’t stop.
Day by day, the distance between them grew. Maybe she wanted to fix things, but habit carried her forward. Jamie retreated into himself, a fortress of indifference where her words just bounced off.
After school, the army took him. He almost welcomed it—better than drifting or begging her for cash. A year away, then he’d get a job, move out…
But he missed her letters. Brief updates, always ending the same: *Take care. Mum.*
When he came home, she’d hugged him tight, even sniffled. Then—back to normal. Nights out, dawn returns. Her screaming, crying, pleading.
*”Not now.” “Later.” “I’m busy.”*
Once, he brought a girl home—dyed hair, nose ring, parents who didn’t get her.
“Meet my fiancée. She’s staying with us,” he said, staring his mum into silence.
They shut themselves in his room. Slept side by side, but he couldn’t touch her—not with his mother listening through the wall.
In the morning, the girl left.
“So now you’re bringing strays home?” his mum spat.
“Do what I want, when I want. This is my flat too. Don’t like it? Leave!” he snarled, fists clenched.
It took her a moment to process. When it hit, she blinked rapidly, as if checking she’d heard right. Jamie slammed his door. Margaret sagged against the wall, trembling, then grabbed her coat and fled outside.
***
On the bench, Margaret wept. The tears spilled out, taking the anger and hurt with them. *When did he change? I loved him. So much. Who else do I have? But we’re strangers now. My fault. He was sweet once, but I scolded and hit him—like it was his fault his dad left. Thought being hard would make him strong. Instead, he’s cruel. Threw me out…*
She looked up at the darkening sky, where stars prickled faintly. Once, she remembered, it had been thick with them.
“If you’re there… help me. I don’t know what to do. Where do I go?” The words caught in her throat, barely a whisper.
People hurried past; cars rushed somewhere. She just stared upward, begging forgiveness.
Rain mixed with tears. She didn’t notice—nor that she was shaking with cold.
Only when a hand touched her shoulder did she freeze. She turned.
Jamie stood behind her, tall, looming. She braced instinctively.
“Mum, come home. You’ll catch cold.”
She jolted awake to her own shivering. Fear gave way to fragile hope—but she dared not move, lest she break whatever spell kept him gentle.
“Come on,” he repeated, heading for the building.
She rose stiffly, limbs numb. Step by step, she followed him. Their footfalls echoed—*shush-shush*—on the concrete stairs. For a moment, she thought someone followed. But it was just the sound, bouncing off the walls.
Jamie held the door. She shuffled in, hung her coat, and drifted to the kitchen. The kettle was already boiling.
By morning, she was feverish. Her eyelids stuck as she tried to sit up, but the room spun. *Good. Might as well die now.*
Footsteps approached.
“Mum, drink this.” Jamie’s voice was soft—unfamiliar warmth in it. She pried her eyes open. He held a glass and two tablets.
He propped her up, fed her the pills, and tipped water to her lips. Her head pounded, but she swallowed.
“Sleep now,” he saidAs the days passed, the quiet kindness between them grew, small acts of care stitching their fractured bond back together, one fragile thread at a time.
