“Talk to him, Lizzie… Or to her? Or perhaps just to yourself…”
“Lizzie, please… He’ll get himself killed out there!” Her mother’s voice trembled with tears.
“Mum, what makes you think that?”
“You know why! He’s still just a boy!” Julia nearly sobbed.
“He’s twenty-five. Next month. A boy…” Lizzie clenched her jaw, exhaling quietly into the phone to keep from shouting. “Fine. I’ll call him.”
She ended the call and bit her lip.
“Arthur, Arthur… That’s all she ever talks about. And me? I’m just background noise, an extra in someone else’s drama. Lizzie’s grown, Lizzie’s independent, Lizzie doesn’t cry—so she must not feel a thing. Not once does Mum ask how I am, what’s happening in my life…”
“It started after Dad died,” Lizzie told her friend Emma, stirring her tea absently.
“Grief, stress, heartache,” Emma nodded. “But it’s been two years…”
“Exactly! And yet she’s latched onto Arthur like he’s her last lifeline. He’s her whole world now. As if she’s reset herself.”
“And you?”
“Me?” Lizzie smirked. “I’m there, but I don’t count. She and Arthur have this… special bond. Fine, if it weren’t so unhealthy. He’s only two years younger, but she treats him like a baby—feeds him, frets over him, reads his mind…”
“Maybe he takes after your father?”
“Oh, they all did—Arthur, Dad’s old school photos. Me? Must’ve gotten different DNA.”
Lizzie was twenty-seven. Worked at a law firm, rented a one-bed in an old brick building near King’s Cross. Her love life was… steady, in its absence. After a couple of failed relationships, she’d decided to focus on herself.
Arthur was different. Sluggish, dreamy, allergic to effort. School was a struggle; he’d picked a university course “with no maths.” Dad, still alive then, had sat him down for a blunt talk, and Arthur had grudgingly settled on something.
Then—Dad’s death. Sudden, brutal. Mum shattered. Doctor’s visits, pills, prayers, the shop nearly collapsing. And through it all, Arthur became her sole comfort.
Her boy. Though he’d been a man for years.
He got a job, though little of his pay made it home. Still, he came for dinner, then straight to his armchair, to his computer. Life happened there. Until Alina came along.
At Christmas, Lizzie visited. Arthur was glued to his phone, grinning at messages, mumbling nonsense. Lizzie knew—love. She was happy for him.
Mum wasn’t.
“You should see him!” Julia fretted once they were alone in the kitchen. “Used to hate lifting a finger, now he’s working like a dog. Overtime, weekends, saving up. For Alina! For their ‘future.’ Rings, dinners, flowers… He’s even started budgeting! Says he won’t come to her empty-handed…”
“Mum, what’s wrong with him growing up?” Lizzie frowned. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“But not like this! They’re always off somewhere—hiking, kayaking… So reckless! What if something happens? I’d be all alone…”
“You can’t keep him in a bubble,” Lizzie sighed. “He’s living. That’s normal.”
Months passed. Lizzie was mid-lunch, fork in her stew, when her phone lit up—Mum. She braced herself and answered.
“He didn’t come home last night, Lizzie! He stayed at her place—warned me, but I’d hoped…”
“Mum, he’s nearly twenty-five. He’s an adult. This is normal.”
“Not to me! I didn’t sleep a wink. Talk to him, please. He listens to you.”
Lizzie exhaled. Promised, of course. But wondered—should she? Maybe he didn’t need a sister’s scolding, just a talk between adults. Or better yet, silence—he’d figure it out.
Then came the horseback riding. The imagined disasters.
“He’ll break his neck!” Mum sobbed. “Or his back! Why can’t Alina ride alone? Why must he?”
Next, camping. Autumn, tents, cliff walks.
“He’ll freeze out there! His immune system’s weak! What about bears? Ticks? Lizzie, talk to him—he’ll listen to you!”
“You know,” Lizzie vented to Emma, “I’m not his sister anymore—I’m a switchboard between two battlefronts. Mum says ‘tell him this,’ he says ‘tell her that.’ Stuck in the middle!”
“Maybe he really will move out soon?” Emma mused.
“I told him—get married, move far away. Breathe. Away from her.”
Then—silence.
No calls, no pleas, no complaints. Lizzie grew worried. Phoned herself.
“How are you, Mum?”
“Fine, darling. Only… Arthur and Alina broke up. She… lost interest. Found someone else. He’s heartbroken.”
“I see…”
“He’s home again. Moping. Gaming. But at least he’s not drinking. And he’s here. Selfish of me, but… I sleep easier. He’s safe, Lizzie. Just like his father… I still love him, you know. Still cry every night.”
Three months later, Arthur rang.
“Can I bring Natasha round? Want you to meet her.”
Lizzie laughed. “Course.”
But inwardly, she sighed. *Here we go again. Mum’s going to spiral. The calls, the tears, the dread. And somehow, I’ll have to introduce my own chap someday…*
She and Stephen were planning a trip later that month. Hiking. The thought of Mum finding out made her stomach twist.
*Will she start fretting over me next? What if I fall? Freeze? What if I have a child, and she latches onto them instead?*
Lizzie sat on the bed, whispering to the empty room:
“Lord, why must love be so tangled?”
She punched her knee, then cried. Because she loved them—Mum, Arthur—too much. Because she just wanted them to stop being so afraid. To love without losing themselves.
And maybe that was the answer. Not to talk to him, or to her. But to herself. To grant herself permission to be happy.
