“Do what I like—it’s my house too. Don’t like it? Leave!” barked James, glaring at his mother from under his brow.
Lydia stepped out of the apartment building, tears blurring her vision. She stumbled to a bench on the playground and sank down heavily, pulling her coat tighter around her. June had arrived, yet the nights were still chilly, the promised heatwave nowhere in sight.
She shivered, shoving her hands into her pockets. She’d sit until the cold forced her to move. But then what? Where could she go? Her own son had thrown her out. A quiet sob escaped her. She’d lived in this house her whole life—left for her wedding from here, carried her newborn son home from the hospital. Her son…
***
“Mum, the class is going to London for the May bank holiday,” Toby announced the moment he walked in, dropping his backpack on the floor.
“Mum? You hear me?” he pressed, standing in the kitchen doorway as she peeled potatoes at the sink. Her stiffened back told him everything. He wasn’t going. Still, he tried.
“Mum, can I have the money?” he shouted over the running water.
“How much?” she asked without turning.
“Train tickets, hotel, meals, museum entry…” he rattled off mechanically.
“How much?” she snapped, tossing a peeled potato into the pot. Water splashed onto her dress.
Lydia hurled the peeler into the sink and spun to face him.
“Right.” Toby’s shoulders slumped as he shuffled to his room.
“I don’t have spare cash lying around. I work for it. You need new shoes for autumn—last year’s barely made it. And your coat sleeves are too short.” Her voice chased him down the hall, shoving him forward.
Toby shut his bedroom door. Her words still seeped through, muffled but relentless.
“Everyone’s going but me,” he muttered. “I want to go to London too!” His voice cracked, his frustration boiling over.
She probably didn’t hear him, but it felt like she answered anyway:
“You’ll travel when you’re older. Earn your own money—go to America if you want!” she shouted from the kitchen.
Toby swallowed his tears.
“Ask your father. He never bought you a single toy. Cheap cars for birthdays. Not a penny beyond child support. And what can you buy with that? Clothes burn holes just looking at you—”
Toby jammed his headphones on. Still, her voice broke through. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Of course. When his dad left, he’d said Toby could reach out if he needed anything. Well, now he did. But he had no mobile.
He cracked the door open. Mum was clattering dishes in the kitchen, muttering. Silently, he slipped into the hallway, pulled on his trainers, and crept out, easing the door shut behind him. He darted downstairs to his mate Ben’s flat—they had a landline.
Ben answered, grinning.
“Need to make a call,” Toby said, grabbing the receiver and dialling fast. He steadied his breathing while it rang.
Toby almost hung up when someone answered.
“Dad! Hey!” he blurted.
“Who’s this?” came the flat reply.
Toby locked eyes with a confused Ben before turning away.
“It’s me, Toby.”
“Which Toby?”
“Dad?!” he cried—but the line went dead.
He slammed the phone down, blinking hard.
“What happened?” Ben asked.
“Not going to London. Mum’s broke, and Dad just hung up.”
“I’ll ask my parents. Say it’s important. They’ll lend it. I’ll cover you.”
“No. They’ll find out. You’ll get grief. Forget it.”
Toby left.
When he was little, Mum had kissed him, called him “sunshine,” bought toys even when he didn’t ask.
Then she changed. Dad left, and she became sharp-tongued, quick to snap, quicker to scold. A clip round the ear hurt worse than a smacked bum. No more kindness—just shouts and swats.
Once, Toby considered running away. But with no money, where would he go? He was only eleven.
“I never asked to be born. Should’ve been Ben’s parents’ kid. Bet he’s got it easy…”
By fourteen, he tuned her out—stayed out late or locked himself in his room, music blasting.
In sixth form, he chased affection elsewhere. Girlfriends who refused kisses got dumped—just like he wanted to do to Mum. Home was just for sleep. Nights were spent cursing his life, his parents, his rotten luck.
He barely studied but scraped passes. Tried fags, beer, vodka, weed. No money meant no habit.
One night, he rolled in at half-one. Mum was waiting, screaming before he’d shut the door. When she swung at him, he caught her wrist—hard. She gasped.
“Don’t you dare shout at me!” he roared, shoving her arm away. He stormed off, slamming his door so hard plaster rained down.
But not before he saw the fear in her eyes.
She never raised a hand again, though the shouting stayed.
Each day, the gulf between them yawned wider. Maybe she wanted to fix it, but momentum carried her. James built walls, sealing himself in his own world—one where her words meant nothing.
After school, the army took him. He almost welcomed it. Better than drifting or begging Mum for cash. A year away, then he’d land a job, move out…
Yet he missed her letters. Brief updates, always ending: “Take care. Mum.”
When he returned, she hugged him—even cried. Then, old patterns resumed. Late nights, rows, tears.
“Can you help with—”
“Not now. Later.”
Once, he brought home a girl with rainbow hair and a nose ring. She had parent issues too—bonded over it.
“Meet my fiancée. She’s staying,” he said, daring his mum to object. She shut her mouth.
They slept in his room—though he didn’t touch her. Not with Mum listening through the wall.
In the morning, the girl left. Mum spat:
“Bringing strangers home now?”
“Do what I like—it’s my house too. Don’t like it? Leave!”
The words took a second to land. She blinked rapidly—surely she’d misheard. He slammed the door.
Lydia, numb, slid to the floor. Then she grabbed her coat and fled.
***
Lydia wept on the bench, her anger and hurt pouring out. “When did he turn like this? I loved him. Who else do I have? Now we’re strangers—enemies. It’s my fault. He was sweet once. But I nagged, screamed, blamed him for everything. Thought no father meant no coddling—make him tough. Instead, I made him cruel.”
She looked up at the darkening sky, the first few stars. Once, they’d been everywhere.
“If you’re there—help me. I don’t know what to do. Where do I go?”
Her throat tightened, but she kept whispering—pleading to the void.
People hurried past. Rain mixed with her tears.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She turned.
James stood over her. Fear coiled inside her.
“Mum, come home. You’ll catch cold.”
She hadn’t even noticed the rain—or how she trembled.
“Come on,” he repeated, heading inside.
She followed, legs stiff. Their footsteps echoed—shuff-shuff—like someone trailed them. But the stairwell was empty.
He held the door. Inside, the kettle whistled.
By morning, she burned with fever. The room spun when she tried to rise.
“Mum, drink this.” James’ voice was uncharacteristically soft. He held out pills, steadied her head as she swallowed.
He called a doctor, rang her work, left water by her bed.
When she woke, sweat-soaked, noon light filtered in. On the table: scrambled eggs he’d made. She cried.
Last night, she’d sat in the rain, begging the sky for help.
“Thank you… Just let me fix this…”
That evening, fever spiked again. Her back ached.
“Mum, rest. I’ll sort dinner.”
She lay down. “He barely says ‘mum.’ Please, not now. I need time…” A cough wracked her.
Three days later, she improved. They hadn’t talked properly—but his quiet “rest,” “eat,” “take these” held a warmth that stilled her. Hope flickered. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
