“I’ll do as I please! It’s my house too. If you don’t like it, you can leave!” shouted Oliver, glaring at his mother from under furrowed brows.
Margaret stepped out of the flat, her vision blurred by tears. She stumbled to a bench in the little playground nearby and sank onto it, wrapping her coat tighter around herself. Though it was mid-June, the evenings still carried a stubborn chill, the promised summer heat nowhere to be found.
She shivered, shoving her hands into her pockets. She’d sit here until the cold became unbearable—but then what? Where could she go? At her age, her own son had thrown her out. A choked sob escaped her. She’d spent her whole life in this house—married from here, brought Oliver home from the hospital. Her son…
***
“Mum, the class is going to London over the Easter break,” Oliver announced, dropping his rucksack on the floor the moment he walked in.
“Mum, you hear me?” He stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her peel potatoes at the sink. The stiff line of her back told him all he needed to know—London wasn’t happening. Still, he tried one last time.
“Mum, can I have some money?” He raised his voice over the rush of water.
“How much?” she asked without turning.
“Train tickets there and back, a hotel, food, museum tickets…” he recited mechanically.
“How much?” she snapped, tossing a peeled potato into the pot. Water splashed onto her dress.
Margaret threw the peeler into the sink and spun around.
“Right. Got it.” Oliver ducked his head and slunk off to his room.
“I don’t have spare money lying about. I don’t wave a wand—I work for it. You’ll need new shoes by autumn. You barely made it through spring in those old ones. And your coat sleeves are too short now.” Her voice chased him down the hall, shoving at his back.
Oliver shut his bedroom door. Her words still seeped through, muffled but bitter.
“Everyone’s going but me,” he muttered, then louder: “I want to go to London too!” His voice cracked, wet with unshed tears.
She probably didn’t hear, but it felt like she answered:
“Plenty of time for travel later. When you’re grown, earn your own money—go to America if you want!” Her voice carried from the kitchen.
Oliver swallowed hard.
“And ask your father. He never bought you a single toy. Cheap little cars for your birthday, was it? Not a penny beyond child support. What can you buy with that pittance? You’re growing—your clothes wear out in weeks. Do you know how much they cost?” The rant rolled on.
Oliver jammed his headphones on, but her voice still broke through. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? When his father left, he’d told Oliver to call if he ever needed anything. Well, now was the time. But he didn’t have a mobile.
He eased the door open and peeked out. His mother rattled dishes in the kitchen, muttering under her breath. Silently, he slipped into the hall, pulled on his trainers, and crept out, careful not to let the latch click. He dashed down the stairs and ran to the next building—to Jack Thompson’s flat. They had a landline.
Jack answered the door, grinning at the sight of him.
“Need to make a call,” Oliver said, snatching up the receiver. He dialled quickly, pressing the phone to his ear, catching his breath as it rang.
He nearly hung up when a voice answered.
“Dad? Hi!” Oliver blurted.
“Who’s this?” came the cautious reply.
Oliver met Jack’s confused gaze, then turned away.
“It’s me. Oliver.”
“Which Oliver?”
“Dad?!” he cried, but the line was already dead.
Oliver replaced the receiver, blinking back fresh tears.
“What happened?” Jack asked.
“Not going to London. Mum won’t pay. And Dad… well, Dad’s gone.” His voice was flat.
“I’ll ask mine. Say it’s important. They’ll lend it. I’ll cover you,” Jack offered brightly.
“No. They’ll tell yours. Forget it.” Oliver left without another word.
When he was little, his mother had kissed him, called him sweet names—her little lamb, her sunshine—bought him toys even when he didn’t ask.
Then something changed. His father left, and she turned sharp-tongued, quick to snap, quick to swat him when he misbehaved. Worse than the smacks were the words—no kindness left, just scolding and raised hands.
He thought about running away. But without money, where would he go? At eleven, no one would hire him.
“I never asked to be born. Bad luck, that’s all. Should’ve been Jack instead. His parents are decent…” Oliver climbed the stairs back home.
By fourteen, he’d learned to tune her out. He’d leave the house, roam the streets. Or lock himself in his room, music blasting through his headphones.
In sixth form, he sought affection elsewhere—girls, mostly. But if one refused him, he dropped her cold, just like he wished he could do with his mother. He came home only to sleep, lying awake nights, cursing his life, his mother, his absent father.
He barely studied, scraped by with mediocre marks. Tried everything—fags, lager, even weed—but money ran thin, so the phase passed before addiction took hold.
One night, he came home at half-one. His mother waited in the hall, already shouting. When she swung at him, he caught her wrist, squeezed. She gasped in pain.
“Don’t you dare shout at me!” he roared, shoving her arm away before storming off, slamming his door so hard plaster dust rained from the ceiling. But not before he saw fear in her eyes.
She never raised a hand again, though the shouting didn’t stop.
Each day, the rift between them widened. Maybe she wanted to fix it, but momentum carried her forward. Oliver withdrew into himself, a fortress no one could breach. Her words bounced off walls of indifference.
After school, he was drafted into the army almost immediately. A relief, really. Better than loitering the streets or begging her for cash. A year away, then he’d get a job, his own place…
But he missed her. Her letters—stiff, lifeless updates, always ending the same: “Take care. Mum.”
When he returned, she hugged him, even sniffled. Then—back to normal. He stayed out all night; she screamed, cried.
If she asked for help, he’d wave her off: “Busy. Later.”
One day, he brought home a girl with rainbow hair and a nose ring. She had family troubles too—something they had in common.
“Meet my fiancée. She’s staying with us,” he said, leveling a look that silenced his mother.
They shut themselves in his room. Didn’t touch, though—he couldn’t. Not with her listening through the wall.
In the morning, the girl left. His mother sneered:
“Bringing your flings home now?”
“I’ll do as I please! It’s my house too. Don’t like it? Leave!” he snarled, fists clenched.
It took her a moment to process. Had she heard right? Oliver slammed the door. Margaret slumped to the floor, trembling, before grabbing her coat and fleeing outside…
***
Margaret sat on the bench, weeping. With each tear, the anger and hurt drained away. “Why? When did he become like this? I loved him. So much. Who else do I have? But we’re strangers now. Enemies. My fault. All mine. He was such a sweet boy, and I scolded him, shouted over every little thing—as if he was to blame. Thought without a father, I had to be harsh. Make him tough. And instead, I made him cruel. Threw me out…”
She hiccuped, tilting her face to the darkening sky, dotted with faint stars. She remembered when the night used to be full of them, like scattered dust.
“If you’re there—if you can hear me—help. I don’t know what to do. Have pity. Where can I go?” The words spilled out between sobs, her throat tight, as if resisting the confession. But she kept whispering, pleading to the empty dark.
People hurried past; cars sped by. She barely noticed the drizzle mingling with her tears, or how her body shook with cold.
Not until a hand touched her shoulder.
She froze, then turned.
Oliver stood over her. Margaret tensed, bracing for—she didn’t know what.
“Mum, come home. You’ll catch cold,” he said.
The words jolted her. Only then did she feel the chill, the tremors wracking her. Fear gave way to fragile hope, but she didn’t dare move—what if it vanished?
Margaret reached for his hand, her heart aching with the weight of unspoken apologies, but for now, this small kindness was enough.
