My name is Jane Wilson, and I live in the quaint town of Henley-on-Thames, where Oxfordshire’s serene streets meander along the river. This morning, I found myself awake before the alarm once again, tidying up the house while my son Alex still slumbered. At 35, he’s been living under my roof for what seems like forever. The kitchen is stacked with dirty dishes, and outdated belongings clutter the living room, a constant reminder of his prolonged stay. It feels as if life’s been paused, with the television left buzzing in the background. I want to tell him, “It’s time to live your own life,” but the words get caught in my throat, and fear grips my heart.
When Alex was young, I raised him on my own. His father walked out, leaving me to play the roles of mother, father, and provider. I worried about every scratch he got at the playground and every poor grade at school. I did everything I could to make him feel safe in our home. The years passed, and my protection became his cage. His body grew, but his spirit remained a child’s, tucked safely under my wing. I hadn’t realized I’d turned him into a perpetual teenager waiting for his mum to sort things out.
One day, a friend asked for help moving some old furniture. I called out to Alex, “Son, give us a hand!” But he just shrugged, “Mum, I’ve got things to do, maybe another time?” and turned back to his computer, losing himself in endless games. That moment was a reflection of our life: I was willing to do anything for him, while he lived under the illusion that his mum would always sort everything out. My friends chorus in unison, “Jane, it’s your house, your rules! The only way is to make him leave, or he’ll never start working and living independently.” Their words hit hard with truth, but thinking about closing the door behind him sends an icy chill through me. This is the same boy who ran to me with scraped knees, cried when teased at school, and waited for me to come home for dinner.
I catch myself turning into a grouchy old woman, mumbling every morning, “He didn’t take out the rubbish again, and there are his clothes all over the house.” My maternal instincts battle with the exhaustion of carrying everything on my own shoulders. Alex doesn’t have a steady job—he does odd bits here and there but quickly loses interest. Any money he makes vanishes on his own entertainment. It shames me to count pennies, shames me that I can’t help him with a big purchase, but it hurts more knowing he doesn’t even try to lighten my load.
A few days ago, I mustered the courage to talk. “Alex, we need to change things,” I said, my voice trembling. “Time moves on, and you’re stuck. I’m not going to be around forever—what happens then?” He frowned, got up silently, and slammed his door shut. The conversation went nowhere, and I felt a deep sense of betrayal, fearing I was tearing apart the love built from his first steps. But thoughts haunt me: could my friends be right? Is it time to let him go, even if it breaks my heart? Other women have children his age who long since had families of their own, raising children, while I am still cooking him dinners, ironing his shirts, and listening to empty promises that “tomorrow” things will change. This “tomorrow” has stretched into years, and nothing will shift without my action.
Sometimes I believe it’s not about kicking him out but finding the right words to ignite his desire to live independently. But how do I do that without causing pain? He’s sensitive, carrying mountains of fear and hurt inside, and perhaps my over-caring has tethered him to this home. But I am human too—I’m tired, yearning for a life without the constant burden of responsibility for an adult son. Today, standing at the sink, I reminisced about when a young Alex would help me put away groceries. He was around five, trying so hard yet so clumsily. Back then, we were a team, a family. Now, he’s a heavy weight on my shoulders, and I don’t know how to let go.
Time is relentless. I believe that one day Alex will find the strength to step into the world without my safety net, where he’ll need to find his own footing. But for that to happen, I need to take the step I’m most afraid of. How do I find the courage within myself? I don’t know. But I understand: it’s not cruelty; it’s my duty—to give him the chance to grow up, even if it costs us tears and mutual recriminations. When I finally tell him everything, I can’t predict the outcome. Maybe he’ll leave, slamming the door and cursing me for “betraying” him. Maybe he’ll find freedom and years later say “thank you.” But I am certain: I can no longer carry this burden endlessly. This thought—a blend of fear and relief—beats in my chest like a hammer. A mother’s love is not just about care; it’s also about knowing when to say, “Go your own way.” And I must do this—for his sake and my own.
