“Do what I like, when I like. It’s my house too. Don’t like it? Then leave!” snapped Oliver, glaring at his mother from under furrowed brows.
Margaret stepped out of the flat, her vision blurred by tears. She shuffled to a bench on the playground and slumped down, belting her raincoat tighter. Even though June had reached its middle, the evenings still held a stubborn chill. The heatwave the forecasters had promised never arrived.
She shivered, shoving her hands into her pockets. She’d sit here until she froze solid—then what? Where could she go? Fifty years old, and her own son had kicked her out. A quiet sob escaped her. She’d lived in this house her whole life—left from here to marry, brought Oliver home from the hospital. Her son…
* * *
“Mum, the class is going to London for the May bank holiday,” Oliver announced, dumping his backpack on the floor the second he walked in.
“Mum? You listening?” He stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her scrub potatoes at the sink. The rigid line of her back told him everything—London was off the table. Still, he tried one last time.
“Mum, can you give me the money?” he asked, raising his voice over the running tap.
“How much?” She didn’t turn around.
“Train tickets both ways, a hostel, spending money for food and museums—” he rattled off, well-rehearsed.
“How. Much.” She flung a peeled potato into the pot. Water splashed her face, soaked her blouse.
Margaret threw the peeler into the sink and spun around.
“Right.” Oliver ducked his head and slouched to his room.
“I don’t have money to burn. I work for it. You need new trainers by autumn—you barely survived spring in those rags. And your coat sleeves are halfway up your arms,” her voice chased him down the hall, shoving him forward.
Oliver shut his bedroom door. Her words still wormed their way in, muffled but clear enough.
“Everyone’s going except me,” he mumbled, then louder: “I *want* to go to London!” His voice cracked, tears threatening to spill.
She probably didn’t hear him, but it felt like she answered:
“You’ll travel when you’re older. Get a job, earn your own money—then you can go to Timbuktu for all I care!”
Oliver swallowed hard.
“Why don’t you ask *him* for once? Your father never bought you a single proper toy. Pound-shop cars on your birthday. Not a penny beyond child support. And what can I get you on those scraps? You’re growing like a weed—you think clothes grow on trees?” Her voice barrelled through the door.
He yanked on his headphones, but her shouting pierced through. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. *Why didn’t I think of it before?* When Dad left, he’d told Oliver to call if he ever needed anything. Well, here was *something*.
He cracked the door open. His mum was clattering pots in the kitchen, muttering. Oliver slipped out, pulled on his trainers, and eased the door shut behind him. He bolted downstairs, sprinting to the next building—to Ethan’s place. They had a landline.
Ethan beamed when he opened the door.
“Need to make a call,” Oliver said, grabbing the phone and dialling before he lost his nerve.
“Dad? Hi!” he blurted as soon as the line connected.
“Who’s this?” came the guarded reply.
Oliver met Ethan’s confused stare. Looked away.
“It’s me. Oliver.”
“Oliver who?”
“*Dad?!*” The line went dead.
Oliver hung up, blinking fast.
“What happened?” Ethan asked.
“I’m not going. Mum won’t pay, Dad’s vanished. Typical.”
“Let me ask my parents. I’ll say it’s important. They’ll cover you,” Ethan offered.
“No. They’ll rat you out. Forget it.” Oliver walked out.
When Oliver was little, his mum had called him “sunshine,” kissed his scraped knees, bought him toys just because. Then, overnight, she changed. Dad left, and she became all sharp edges—shouting, snapping, slapping his hands away. A smack on the head hurt more than any spanking. No more sweet words, just nagging and noise.
He’d thought about running away. But an eleven-year-old with no money wouldn’t make it far.
*I never asked to be born. Luck of the draw. Should’ve been Ethan’s parents’ kid instead.*
By fourteen, he’d turned her shouts into white noise—staying out late, blasting music through headphones. At sixteen, he chased affection elsewhere, dating girls who’d laugh at his jokes. If one refused to kiss him, he’d drop her cold—just like he wanted to drop his mum. Home was just a place to sleep. He’d lie awake, cursing his life, his mum, his deadbeat dad.
He barely studied but scraped by with C’s. Tried it all—cigarettes, cheap lager, vodka, even a joint. Money ran out fast, though, so he quit before addiction could bite.
One night, he stumbled in at half-one. His mum pounced in the hallway, screaming. When she raised her hand, he caught her wrist and squeezed. She gasped.
“Don’t you *dare* shout at me!” He shoved her arm away, slammed his door so hard the ceiling cracked.
But not before he saw the fear in her eyes.
She never raised a hand again, though the shouting stayed.
With every day, the gap between them widened. Maybe she wanted to fix things—but habit kept her locked in. And Oliver? He built a shell, brick by brick. Her words bounced off now, harmless.
After secondary school, the army took him. A relief—better than mooching off her, begging for cash. A year away, then he’d get his own place, a job…
But he missed her. Her letters were stiff—work, weather, “Take care. Mum.” Always the same.
When he came back, she hugged him, even teared up. Then—back to normal. Nights out, dawn returns. Her yelling, crying.
“Oliver, fix the tap—”
“Later. Busy.”
One day, he brought home a girl with neon pink hair and a nose ring. Parent issues—just like him.
“Meet my fiancée. She’s moving in,” he said, cutting off her protest with a look.
They shut themselves in his room. She stayed over, though he didn’t touch her—not with his mum listening through the wall.
In the morning, the girl left. His mum sneered:
“Bringing girls home now, are we?”
“I’ll do what I want. It’s my house too. Don’t like it? *Leave.*” He clenched his fists, watching her flinch.
It took a second to sink in. She blinked fast. Had she heard right? He slammed the door.
Margaret stood frozen, then crumpled to the floor, shaking. She grabbed her coat and fled outside.
* * *
Margaret sat on the bench, weeping. Her anger and hurt poured out with every tear.
*When did this happen? I loved him. So much. Who else do I have? Now we’re strangers—worse, enemies. My fault. All of it. He was such a sweet boy, and I *nagged*, *shouted*, like he chose this life. Thought being hard on him would make him tough. Instead, he’s cruel. Threw me out…*
She looked up at the darkening sky, spotted the first stars. They used to dazzle like glitter.
“If you’re there—*help*. I don’t know what to do. *Please*. Where do I go?” Her voice broke.
Tears choked her. Passers-by hurried past; cars zoomed by. She clenched her fists, whispering apologies to the sky.
Rain mixed with her tears. She didn’t notice—or how her body shook with cold.
Then a hand touched her shoulder.
She froze. Turned.
Oliver towered over her. Margaret braced.
“Mum. Let’s go home. You’ll catch cold.”
She startled—*had* she been shaking this hard? Joy flickered, but she stayed still, afraid to set him off.
“Come on.” He walked ahead.
She stood slowly, legs numb. Followed him up the stairs, their footsteps echoing. For a second, she thought someone else was there—but no. Just the sound bouncing off the walls.
Oliver held the door. She shuffled in, belatedly registering the kettle boiling.
By morning, she was burning up. Her eyelids stuck. She tried to sit—*dizzy. Sick.*
*Good. Let it end.*
Footsteps.
“Mum. Drink this.” Oliver’s voice—soft, unfamiliar. She peeled her eyes open. He held a glass, two pills on his palm.
He propped her up, fed her the tablets, tipped water to her lips. Her headShe watched him tuck the blankets around her, and for the first time in years, she saw her little boy again—the one who’d called her “Mum” with love instead of scorn.
