“Do what I want? Of course I will. It’s my flat too. If you don’t like it, leave!” spat James, glaring at his mother from under his brows.
Margaret stepped out of the block of flats, her vision blurred by tears. She made her way to a bench on the children’s playground and sank onto it, pulling her coat tighter. Though mid-June, the evenings were still chilly, the promised heatwave nowhere in sight.
She shivered, shoving her hands into her pockets. She’d sit here until the cold forced her inside—but then where? Where could she go? This was it. Her own son had thrown her out. A choked sob escaped her. She’d lived in this house her whole life—left from here on her wedding day, carried her newborn son home from the hospital. Her son…
***
“Mum, the class is going to London over the bank holiday,” James announced, dropping his backpack inside the door.
“Mum? Did you hear me?” He stood in the kitchen doorway now, watching her peel potatoes at the sink. Her stiffened back told him everything—London was off the table. Still, he tried once more.
“Mum, can you give me the money?” he asked, raising his voice over the running tap.
“How much?” she asked without turning.
“The train fare, the hotel, money for food and museums…” James recited automatically.
“How much?” Margaret snapped again, tossing a potato into the pot. Water splashed onto her face, her dress dampening at the front.
With a sharp clatter, she threw the peeler into the sink and turned.
“Right.” James lowered his head and trudged to his room.
“I don’t have money to throw around. I work for it. You need new shoes for autumn—you barely got through spring in those. And your coat sleeves are too short now.” Her voice chased him to his door, pushing at his back.
James shut his bedroom door. But her words slithered under it, quieter now, but still there.
“Everyone’s going but me,” he muttered. Then, louder: “I want to go to London too!” His voice cracked, tears threatening.
She probably hadn’t heard, but it felt like she answered:
“You’ll travel when you’re older. Earn your own money—go to America if you want!” she called from the kitchen.
James swallowed hard.
“Ask your father. He never bought you so much as an extra toy. Cheap cars for birthdays, not a penny beyond child support. And what can I buy with that? You’re growing—your clothes don’t last. Do you know what things cost?” The kitchen rant continued.
James jammed on his headphones, but her voice still pierced through. He wiped his eyes. Of course—his father had said to call if he needed anything. Well, now was the time. But he didn’t have a mobile.
He cracked open his door. His mother was clattering dishes in the kitchen, muttering. Silently, he slipped into the hall, pulled on his trainers, and eased the flat door shut behind him. He darted downstairs and across to his friend Billy’s block—they had a landline.
Billy opened the door, grinning at the unexpected visit.
“Need to make a call,” James said, grabbing the receiver from the side table. He dialled quickly, catching his breath as it rang.
He almost hung up when the line clicked.
“Dad? Hi!” James blurted.
“Who is this?” came the flat reply.
James met Billy’s confused stare, then turned away.
“It’s me. James.”
“Which James?”
“Dad?!” The line went dead.
James set the receiver down, eyes stinging.
“What’s wrong?” Billy asked.
“I’m not going to London. Mum won’t pay, and Dad just hung up,” James grunted.
“I’ll ask my parents. Say it’s important. They’ll lend it—I’ll cover you,” Billy offered.
“No. They’ll tell yours. Forget it.” James left before his voice broke.
***
Back home, he seethed. Once, his mother had called him “sunshine,” kissed him goodnight, bought toys just because. Then his father left, and she turned hard—snapping, slapping, never a kind word.
At fourteen, he drowned her out with music or roamed the streets. In sixth form, he chased girls—if one refused to kiss him, he dropped her cold. He came home only to sleep, staring at the ceiling, cursing his life.
He barely studied but scraped by with passes. Tried fags, vodka, even weed—but money ran out before addiction could bite.
One night, he stumbled in at half one. His mother was waiting.
“Where have you—”
He caught her wrist before the slap landed, squeezing until she gasped.
“Don’t you dare shout at me!” he snarled, shoving her hand away. The door slam sent plaster dust raining from the ceiling.
But not before he saw the fear in her eyes.
She never raised a hand again, though the shouting didn’t stop. The rift between them widened until, after school, army conscription felt like freedom.
Even there, he missed home. Her letters were stiff—work, the weather, always ending, “Take care. Mum.”
Returning, she hugged him, even cried. Then the old dance resumed—nights out, slammed doors, her tears.
“Can’t you—”
“Later.”
Then came the girl with neon hair and a nose ring, another runaway.
“My fiancée. She’s staying here,” James said, the dare in his eyes silencing his mother.
They shared his bed chastely, both knowing Margaret listened through the wall.
In the morning: “Bringing trollops home now?”
His fist clenched. “My flat too. Don’t like it? Get out.”
The slam of his door was her answer.
Margaret sat on the floor, trembling, before grabbing her coat.
***
Rain mixed with her tears on the bench.
“Why? When did he become this? I loved him. Who else do I have? But we’re strangers now. My fault. He was sweet once, but I scolded, shouted—as if him growing up fatherless meant I couldn’t show love. And now he’s cruel. He threw me out…”
She tilted her face to the darkening sky, whispering, “If you’re there—help me. Where do I go?”
A hand touched her shoulder.
James stood over her, taller now. “Mum. Come home. You’ll catch cold.”
The walk upstairs was slow, footsteps echoing.
Inside, the kettle whistled.
By morning, fever pinned her to bed. James brought tea, pills, called the GP. Left lunch on the table before work.
She wept over the cold eggs.
That night, coughing tore through her. “Rest. I’ll manage,” James said, guiding her to bed.
Three days later, the fever broke. They hadn’t spoken properly, but his “drink this,” “take these,” warmed her more than medicine.
Not too late. There was still time.
