Margaret woke to the sound of crashing. Again. Something was being thrown, hitting the floor, shattering. The clock showed half past six. Sunday. The one day she could sleep in until eight.
“Mother!” roared James from the kitchen. “Where’s my mug? You moved everything again!”
Fifty-two years old. She dragged herself out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown. In the mirror, the tired face of a woman who couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept properly. Grey roots peeking through dyed hair, dark circles under her eyes. When had she grown so old?
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she muttered, shuffling toward the kitchen.
James stood in the middle of the chaos. Shards of a plate littered the floor—one he’d evidently thrown in his hunt for his precious mug. Twenty-five, six feet tall, broad-shouldered. Yet he acted like a spoiled toddler.
“Here’s your mug,” Margaret said, pulling a blue cup from the drying rack that read *World’s Best Son*.
She’d bought it years ago, back when she still believed he’d turn his life around, find work, start acting like an adult. Now the phrase felt like a cruel joke.
“Why’d you put it there? I told you—it stays on the table!”
“James love, I washed up last night—”
“Not James love! Just James! How many times?”
He snatched the mug from her, sloshing in yesterday’s cold tea from the pot. Margaret stared at the broken plate. Another mess to clean, another thing to replace. Another day of tolerance.
“Mum, what happened?” Emily appeared in the doorway—small, fragile, wrapped in an old sleep shirt. Nineteen but looked sixteen. Studying education, dreaming of working with kids. If she finished her degree. If she survived this house.
“Nothing, love. A plate broke.”
“Oh, it *broke itself*, did it?” James scoffed. “Just leapt off the shelf?”
Emily wordlessly grabbed the broom and began sweeping. As if shattered crockery at dawn was just part of life.
“Leave it!” James barked. “I didn’t ask you to clean!”
“Then who will?” Emily said softly.
“None of your business!”
Margaret slumped at the table, resting her head in her hands. *God, how much longer?* How much more shouting, fighting, this… war in her own home?
Ten years ago, Richard had died. Her husband, father to her children. Heart attack. Or maybe he’d just had enough of the madness. Back then, James was still in college—though he dropped out six months later. *Didn’t like it.* Got a job at a grocery store—lasted two weeks. Quit because the manager was *an idiot.* Then construction—*colleagues were morons.* A car wash—*boss was a cheat.* Year after year. At first, Margaret hoped he’d find his way. Then she begged him to just *try.* Then pleaded. Then gave up.
And he only grew angrier. At the world. At life. At her and Emily. But most of all—at her. *She* was why he was a failure. *She* 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!”
“James, we bought cereal two days ago. You finished it.”
“Then buy more!”
“With what? I don’t get paid till next week.”
“Not my problem!”
She opened the fridge. Half a tub of cottage cheese, three eggs, a loaf of bread. Seven days till payday. Emily worked weekends handing out flyers—twenty quid a day. Barely covered her bus fare and lunches at uni.
“I can make scrambled eggs,” Margaret offered.
“With bacon!”
“There *is* no bacon.”
“Then forget it!” He kicked his chair over.
“James, don’t,” Emily whispered.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” He wheeled on her. “You think you’re better than me? With your stupid degree?”
“I didn’t—”
“You *do*! You look at me like I’m—”
“Enough!” Margaret stepped between them.
“Shut up, both of you! I’m sick of this prison! This miserable dump!”
“No one’s forcing you to stay,” slipped out before she could stop it.
James went still. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“You *said* no one’s keeping me here. Hinting I should leave?”
“James—”
“Answer me! You *want* me gone?”
She was silent. But *God*, she did. To wake in peace. Not flinch at every noise. Not tiptoe in her own home.
“Fine. Know this—I’m *not* leaving! This is my place too! I’m on the lease!”
“The house is in *my* name,” she said quietly.
“So? I’m your son! I’ve got rights!”
“And responsibilities. You’re a grown man. Twenty-five years old.”
“Here we go!” He slammed the table. “I’m a rubbish son! A layabout! I—”
“You *shout* at me every day!” Something inside her snapped. “You don’t lift a finger! You live off me and *blame* me for it!”
“Shut your mouth!”
“No! I’m *tired*, James. Fifty-two, working myself to the bone to feed two grown adults!”
“*One* works and studies,” Emily cut in. “The other—”
“Shut it!” James raised a hand.
“Don’t you *dare*!” Margaret shoved him back.
“Or what? Call the police? Go on—not my first time!”
She *had* called them. Three times last year. Two officers would come, ask what happened. She’d explain. They’d talk to James. He’d play the angel—*sorry, I’ll do better.* They’d leave. Two days later—same story.
“Know what?” James spat. “I’m done with this. I’m going back to bed.”
The door slammed. Margaret and Emily stood amidst the wreckage—broken plates, upended chairs, a shattered life.
“Mum,” Emily whispered. “Maybe you could stay with Aunt Lucy for a bit? She offered—”
“No. I won’t leave you alone with him.”
“Is there… another way?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But this can’t go on. Look at you. You’re a shadow.”
Margaret caught her reflection in the kitchen window. Emily was right. A ghost of the woman who used to laugh.
On Monday, she went to the Citizens Advice Bureau. Not sure why—just needed to talk.
A woman named Helen listened.
“My son… he’s making life unbearable.”
She told her everything. The shouting. The threats. The broken things. The fear.
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-five.”
“On the tenancy?”
“Yes.”
“But you own the property?”
“Yes.”
Helen made notes. “Margaret, you can apply to evict him.”
“*Evict* my own son?”
“He’s an adult creating an unlivable environment. Under the Housing Act, if a tenant engages in antisocial behaviour—”
“But he’s *family*!”
“Who’s terrorising you. You have another child—Emily. Doesn’t she deserve peace?”
Margaret thought of Emily flinching at slamming doors. Making herself small. Dreaming of escape.
“What if he refuses?”
“A court order forces compliance. Bailiffs will remove him if necessary.”
“And where would he go?”
“Not your concern. He’s an adult.”
That night, James raged over dinner—*why pasta? I wanted pizza!*
Margaret didn’t flinch. “James, you find a job by month’s end. Or you leave.”
He laughed. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll make you.”
Two weeks later, the court ruled: James had thirty days to vacate.
He read the papers, face darkening. “You *sued* me?”
“Yes.”
“My own *mother*?”
“Yes.”
He swore, paced. “I’m not going.”
“You are.”
“Try making me!”
“Bailiffs will.”
He left within the week, cursing her.
That evening, rain pattered against the windows. Emily stirred her tea. “Do you regret it?”
Margaret exhaled. “I regret waiting so long. Letting him hurt us. Letting you grow up in a warzone.”
“But not that he’s gone?”
“No.”
For the first time in years, the house was quiet. Warm.
Emily smiled. “Feels like home again.”
Margaret hugged her tight. “It does.”
Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside—peace. Finally.
And as the last echoes of his anger faded, Margaret realized that sometimes love means knowing when to let go.
