“Do what I want—it’s my flat too. Don’t like it? Leave!” shouted Oliver, glaring darkly at his mother.
Margaret stepped out of the building, tears blurring her vision. She stumbled to a bench on the playground and sank onto it heavily, tightening her coat around her. Though June had reached its middle, the evenings remained chilly, and the promised summer heat still hadn’t arrived.
She shivered, tucking her hands into her pockets. She’d sit here until she froze—then what? Where could she go? Fifty years old, and her own son had thrown her out. A lost sob escaped her. She’d lived in this house her whole life—left for the registry office from here, brought Oliver home from the hospital here. Her son…
***
“Mum, the class is going to London for the bank holiday,” Oliver announced from the doorway, dropping his backpack on the floor.
“Mum, did you hear me?” He stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her peel potatoes at the sink. The stiffness in her back told him London was unlikely. Still, he tried once more.
“Mum, can I have the money?” He raised his voice over the running water.
“How much?” she asked without turning.
“Train tickets there and back, a hostel, food, museum entries…” he recited mechanically.
“How much?” she repeated sharply, tossing a potato into the pot. Water splashed her face and dress.
Margaret flung the peeler into the sink and turned.
“Right.” Oliver lowered his head and shuffled to his room.
“I don’t have spare money. I don’t print it—I earn it. You need new trainers for autumn, those barely lasted till spring. Your coat sleeves are too short,” her voice chased him down the hall, shoving at his back.
Oliver shut his bedroom door, but her words slithered under it, muffled but biting.
“Everyone’s going but me,” he muttered. “I want to go to London too!” His voice cracked, tears clawing at his throat.
She probably hadn’t heard, but it felt like she answered:
“You’ll travel later. Grow up, earn your own money—go to America if you want.”
Oliver swallowed his tears.
“Ask your father. He never bought you a single extra toy. Gave you cheap cars for birthdays. Not a penny beyond child support. What can you buy with that pittance? Clothes don’t last—” Her rant bled through the door.
He yanked on headphones, but her voice still pierced them. Wiping his face, it hit him—why hadn’t he thought of it before? When Dad left, he’d said to call if needed. This was that moment. But Oliver had no mobile.
Easing the door open, he peeked out. Mum banged dishes in the kitchen, muttering. Slipping past, he tugged on his trainers, slipped outside, and sprinted to his mate Jamie’s flat—they had a landline.
Jamie grinned when he opened the door.
“I need to call someone,” Oliver said, snatching the receiver and dialling before he lost his nerve.
“Dad, hi!” he burst out when the line picked up.
“Who’s this?” came the cold reply.
Oliver met Jamie’s confused stare, then turned away.
“It’s me, Oliver.”
“Oliver who?”
“Dad?!” The line went dead.
Oliver hung up, throat burning.
“What happened?” Jamie asked.
“Not going to London. Mum’s skint. Dad’s vanished.”
“I’ll ask my parents—say it’s urgent. They’ll lend it.”
“No. They’ll get mad at you. Forget it.” Oliver left.
When he was little, Mum had kissed him, called him “sunshine” and bought toys unasked.
Then she changed. Dad left, and she turned sharp, shouting, snapping, smacking the back of his head—far worse than a smack on the bum. No more kindness, just scolds.
At fourteen, he ignored her, roaming streets or locking himself in his room, music blasting.
By sixth form, he chased affection elsewhere—girls who refused kisses were dumped instantly, like he wished he could do to Mum. Home was just for sleeping. Nights stretched long, cursing his life, Mum, absent Dad.
He rarely studied but scraped by. Tried fags, booze, even weed—but skint, he quit before addiction took hold.
One night, he came home past midnight. Mum was waiting, screaming. When she swung, he caught her wrist, squeezing till she gasped.
“Don’t yell at me!” He shoved her away, slammed his door so hard plaster rained down. Before he did, he saw fear in her eyes.
She never raised a hand again, though the shouting continued.
Each day, the rift widened. Maybe she wanted to mend it, but habit carried her forward. Oliver retreated into himself—king of his own indifference, her words bouncing off his walls.
After school, the army took him—a relief. Better than begging Mum for cash. A year away, then he’d work, move out…
Yet he missed her letters. Dry updates, always ending: “Stay safe. Mum.”
Returning, she hugged him, her choked sobs brief before old patterns resurfaced—him out all night, her screaming.
When she asked favours, he’d wave her off: “Busy. Later.”
Once, he brought home a girl with rainbow hair and a nose ring—another with parental troubles. Their bond.
“Meet my fiancée. She’s moving in,” he said, silencing Mum with a look.
They slept in his room, untouched—aware Mum listened through the wall.
At dawn, the girl left. Mum sneered: “Bringing strangers home now?”
“Do what I want—it’s my flat too. Don’t like it? Leave!” Oliver stood over her, fists clenched.
It took her seconds to process. He slammed his door. Margaret, shattered, slid to the floor, trembling. Then she grabbed her coat and fled outside…
***
On the bench, Margaret wept, anger and regret pouring out with each tear. “When did he turn like this? I loved him. Who else is there? But we’re strangers now. My fault. He was sweet once—I scolded, snapped, blamed him for everything. Thought no coddling would toughen him up. Instead, I made him cruel.”
She looked up at the dusk, spotting faint stars. Once, the sky had glittered with them.
“If you’re there—help me. I don’t know what to do. Where do I go?” Her voice fractured, throat seizing like it resisted repentance. But she kept whispering to the darkening sky.
People hurried past; cars sped by. She didn’t notice the drizzle mixing with her tears or her own shivering.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She turned—Oliver towered over her. She flinched, bracing.
“Mum, come home. You’ll catch cold.”
Margaret startled, only now feeling the chill shaking her body. Joy warred with caution—one wrong move might spark his temper.
“Come on,” he said, walking ahead.
She rose stiffly, trailing his tall frame up the stairs. Their footsteps echoed, ghostly.
Oliver held the door. Inside, the kettle hummed.
By morning, fever gripped her. She pried her eyes open—late, surely. Nausea swirled the room. “Ill. Good. Might as well die.”
Footsteps neared.
“Mum, drink.” Oliver’s voice, soft now. He held out pills and water.
She swallowed them, his hand steadying her head.
“Sleep.”
He called a doctor, rang her work, left water by her bed, then left.
She woke at noon, sweat-drenched but cooler. Limping to the kitchen, she found scrambled eggs on the table—he’d cooked for her. She wept.
Last night, she’d sat in the rain, begging the sky for mercy.
“Thank you… Just let me fix this…”
That evening, fever returned, her back too stiff to bend.
“Mum, rest. I’ll manage,” Oliver said, guiding her to bed.
She lay down, thoughts spinning. “He rarely says ‘Mum.’ Don’t let me die yet—not when there’s still time… ” A cough wracked her.
Three days later, she improved. They hadn’t talked properly, but his “rest,” “drink this,” “take these,” held gentleness that warmed her. Hope flickered—maybe not too late to mend what was broken.
The lesson lingered: love buried under hurt can still resurface, but only if both dare to dig.
