Margaret woke to the sound of crashing—again. Something was being thrown, smashed, shattered. The clock read half past six in the morning. Sunday, for heaven’s sake. The one day she could sleep in until eight.
“Mum!” shouted James from the kitchen. “Where’s my mug? You’ve moved everything again!”
Fifty-two years old. She dragged herself out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown. The mirror reflected the tired face of a woman who couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept properly. Grey roots peeked through her unkempt hair, dark circles beneath her eyes. When had she aged so much?
“Coming, coming,” she muttered, shuffling toward the kitchen.
James stood amidst the wreckage. On the floor lay shards of a plate—the one he must’ve thrown in his hunt for that precious mug. Twenty-five years old, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, yet he behaved like a spoiled toddler.
“Here’s your mug,” Margaret said, pulling the blue cup with “Best Son” printed on it from the drying rack.
She’d bought it years ago, back when she still believed he’d grow up, find a job, start acting like an adult. Now the words felt like a cruel joke.
“Why did you put it there? I told you—my mug stays on the table!”
“Love, I washed up last night—”
“Don’t call me that! It’s James! How many times?”
He snatched the mug from her hands, sloshing in stale tea from the last dregs in the kettle. Margaret stared at the broken plate and sighed—another mess to clean, another plate to replace, another morning of enduring.
“Mum, what happened?” Emily appeared in the doorway, slight and delicate in her old pyjamas. Nineteen but looked sixteen. Studying education at uni, dreaming of working with children—if she made it through, if she could bear living like this.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Just a broken plate.”
“Oh, it just broke by itself, did it?” James scoffed.
Emily silently fetched the dustpan and swept up the pieces. Routine, practised, as if shattered crockery at dawn were just part of life.
“Leave it!” James snapped. “I didn’t ask you to clean!”
“Then who will?” Emily murmured.
“None of your business!”
Margaret sank into a chair, cradling her head in her hands. God, how much longer? How much more of this shouting, these tantrums, this—war in her own home?
Ten years since Steve had died. Her husband, the children’s father. His heart gave out—or maybe he just couldn’t bear the chaos anymore. Back then, James was still in college. Dropped out six months later. “Don’t like it,” he’d said. Got a job at a shop—lasted two weeks. Quit because the manager was a “moron.” Then construction—didn’t suit. Coworkers were “idiots.” A car wash—boss was a “miser.” Year after year. At first, Margaret hoped he’d find his way. Then she begged him to try. Then pleaded. Then just accepted it.
And he only grew angrier. At the world, at life, at her and Emily. But most of all—at her. She was the reason he was a failure. She’d raised him wrong. She owed him food, clothes, a roof.
“Mum, what’s for breakfast?” James flopped into a chair.
“Eggs, porridge—”
“Porridge again? I’m sick of this slop! Buy proper cereal!”
“We got cereal two days ago. You ate it all.”
“So buy more!”
“With what? I don’t get paid till next week.”
“Not my problem!”
Margaret opened the fridge. Half a pack of cottage cheese, three eggs, a loaf of bread. A week till payday. Emily tried to help—handing out flyers on weekends. Twenty quid a day. Barely covered her bus fare and lunches at uni.
“I can make eggs,” she offered.
“With bacon!”
“We don’t have bacon.”
“Then forget it!” He kicked his chair, sending it clattering to the floor.
“James, stop,” Emily whispered.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” he snarled, turning on her. “Think you’re better than me? With your useless degree?”
“I didn’t say—”
“You’re thinking it! Looking at me like—like—”
“James, that’s enough,” Margaret stepped between them.
“You shut up too! I’m sick of both of you! Living like a prisoner in this dump!”
“No one’s forcing you to stay,” Margaret said before she could stop herself.
James froze. Slowly, he turned.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“You said no one’s keeping me here. Hinting I should leave?”
“James—”
“Answer me! You want me gone?”
Margaret didn’t reply. But God, she did. To wake in silence. To not flinch at every sound. To walk freely in her own home.
“Silence? Fine. Know this—I’m not going anywhere! This is my place too! I’m on the lease!”
“The house is in my name,” she said quietly.
“So what? I’m your son! I’ve got rights!”
“And responsibilities,” she shot back, surprising herself. “You’re a grown man. Twenty-five.”
“Oh, here we go!” He slammed his fist on the table. “I’m a terrible son! A freeloader! I—”
“You shout at me every day!” Something inside her snapped. “You do nothing! You live off me and still blame me for everything!”
“Shut up!”
“No! I’m tired, James. Do you hear me? Tired! I’m fifty-two, working my fingers to the bone to support two grown adults!”
“One’s studying and helps,” Emily murmured. “The other—”
“Shut your mouth!” James lurched toward her.
“Don’t you dare!” Margaret screamed.
“Or what? Call the police? Go on, then! Won’t be the first time!”
The police. She had called them. Three times last year. Two officers would come, ask what happened. She’d explain. They’d shake their heads, talk to James. He’d play the angel—apologise, promise to change. They’d leave. Two days later—back to normal.
“You know what?” James said. “I’ve had enough. I’m going back to bed.”
He stormed off, slamming his door. Margaret and Emily stood amid the wreckage—broken plate, overturned chair, shattered peace.
“Mum,” Emily whispered. “Maybe you should stay with Aunt Laura for a bit? She offered—”
“No.” Margaret shook her head. “I won’t leave you alone with him.”
“But… isn’t there something we can do?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But this can’t go on. Look at you. You’re like a ghost.”
Margaret caught her reflection in the kitchen mirror. Emily was right. A shadow of the woman who used to laugh.
On Monday, Margaret went to Citizens Advice. She didn’t know why—just needed to talk, to unload.
A young woman, Sarah, listened as Margaret spilled it all—the shouting, the threats, the broken dishes. The fear of her own child. The exhaustion of survival.
“How old is he?” Sarah asked.
“Twenty-five.”
“On the tenancy?”
“Yes.”
“But you own the house?”
“Yes. It’s in my name.”
Sarah made notes.
“Margaret, there is one option. You can take him to court for eviction.”
“Eviction? He’s my son!”
“An adult son making life unbearable. It’s in the Housing Act. If a family member misuses the property, violates others’ rights—”
“But you can’t evict family!”
“You can. If they’re of age and behaving antisocially. You’ll need witnesses, police reports, character references.”
Margaret sat silent. Evict her own son?
“I know it’s hard,” Sarah said gently. “But think—you have another child. Emily. She deserves to study, to live properly. What’s happening now?”
Margaret pictured Emily—flinching at loud noises, shrinking into corners, dreaming of escape.
“What if he refuses to leave?”
“A court order is enforceable. Bailiffs will assist if needed.”
“Where will he live?”
“That’s not your concern. He’s an adult. Let him rent, find work.”
That evening, Margaret sat at the kitchen table, thinking. Behind the wall, James yelled—gaming or arguing on the phone. Emily did homework with headphones on.
Evict her son… Was he right? Was she a bad mother? Abandoning him?
But he wasn’t a child. Twenty-five. At his age, Steve had been working, supporting himself. She’d had James at twenty-five, raised him, worked two jobs.
“Mum.” Emily sat**Final sentence:**
*And as the rain tapped gently against the window, Margaret realised that sometimes love means knowing when to let go—and that silence, at long last, could be the kindest sound of all.*
