My name is Sarah Bennett, and I live in Warwick, where quaint streets meander along the river. This morning, I woke up early once again, ahead of my alarm, to tidy the house while my son, James, was still asleep. He’s 35 and has been living under my roof for what feels like an eternity. The kitchen is piled high with unwashed dishes, and the living room is cluttered with his old belongings, scattered about as if life hit pause and forgot to press play again. I want to tell him, “It’s time to live your life,” yet every time the words catch in my throat, and my heart clenches with fear.
When James was little, I raised him on my own. My husband left us, and I had to play the roles of both mother and father, as well as the provider. I worried over every scrape at the playground, every low mark at school. I did everything to make him feel secure in our home. As the years went by, that safety net became his cage. Physically, he grew up, but emotionally, he remained a child, sheltered under my wing. I didn’t even notice how he became an eternal boy waiting for his mother to solve everything.
Once, a friend asked for help moving some old furniture. I called James: “Son, give us a hand!” But he just shrugged, saying, “Mum, I’m busy, maybe next time?” and turned back to his endless computer games. That moment was a reflection of our lives: I was ready to do anything for him, while he lived under the illusion that Mum would always bail him out. My friends all say, “Sarah, it’s your house, your rules! Making him leave is the only way; otherwise, he’ll never start working or living independently.” Their words cut with truthfulness, but the idea of closing the door behind him chills me inside. After all, he’s the same boy who ran to me with scraped knees, cried when teased at school, and waited for me to come home so we could have dinner together.
I find myself turning into a grumbling old woman. Every morning, I mutter, “Rubbish not taken out again, clothes all over the house.” My maternal instinct battles with the exhaustion of carrying everything on my shoulders alone. James doesn’t have steady work; he picks up odd jobs but quickly loses interest. Any money he makes disappears into his entertainment. I feel embarrassed counting pennies, embarrassed that I can’t help him with significant purchases, yet even more hurt by his lack of effort to make my life easier.
A few days ago, I mustered up the courage for a conversation. “James, something needs to change,” I said in a trembling voice. “Time is slipping away, and you’re just standing still. I’m not eternal, what will happen when I’m gone?” He frowned, got up in silence, slammed the door, and shut himself in his room. Our talk didn’t go anywhere, and I was left with a feeling like I was betraying him, dismantling the love built since his first steps. But the thoughts gnaw at me: perhaps my friends are right? Maybe it’s time to let him go, even if it breaks my heart? Other women have children his age with families of their own, raising little ones, while I still make him meals, iron his shirts, and listen to hollow promises that “tomorrow” everything will change. That “tomorrow” has stretched into years, and without my action, nothing will shift.
Sometimes I think it’s not about “throwing him out” but finding the words that will awaken his desire to live independently. But how do I choose them without hurting him? He’s sensitive, harboring a mountain of fears and resentments, and maybe my excessive care has anchored him to this home. But I’m human too—I’m tired; I want peace; I want to live without the everlasting burden of responsibility for an adult son. Today, as I stood at the sink, I recalled how little James used to help me put groceries away. He was five, trying his best, although clumsily. Back then, we were a team, a family. Now, he’s a heavy stone on my shoulders, and I don’t know how to let go.
Time is relentless. I believe that one day James will find the courage to step into a world where there is no safety net, where he will have to stand on his own two feet. But to make that happen, I need to take a step that terrifies me more than anything. How can I gather the courage? I don’t know. But I understand: it’s not cruelty but my duty—to give him a chance to grow up, even if it costs us tears and mutual reproach. When I finally tell him everything, I cannot predict what will follow. Maybe he’ll leave, slamming the door, cursing me for “betrayal.” Maybe he’ll find freedom and, years later, thank me. But I know for sure: I can no longer bear this burden indefinitely. This thought—a mix of fear and relief—pounds in my chest like a hammer. A mother’s love is not only about care but the ability to say: “Go your own way.” And I must do this—for him and for myself.
