My name is Sarah White, and I live in a quiet part of Oxfordshire, near the river that meanders through the countryside. This morning, I woke even before my alarm went off to tidy up the house while my son, James, was still asleep. He’s 35, and it feels like he’s been living under my roof forever. In the kitchen, a pile of dirty dishes awaits, and the living room is strewn with his old belongings, reminders that he’s been stuck here too long. It’s as if someone pressed pause on his life and forgot to hit play again. I want to tell him, “It’s time you start living your own life,” but the words always catch in my throat, and my heart clenches with fear.
When James was a child, I raised him alone. His father left us, and I took on the roles of both parents and provider. I fretted over every scratch from the playground and every bad grade. I did everything I could to make him feel safe in our home. But as the years ticked by, that protection became a cage. He grew up physically, but mentally he remains a child under my wing. I didn’t realize I turned him into an eternal boy expecting mom to solve everything.
There was a time a friend needed help moving some old furniture. I asked James, “Could you lend a hand?” But he just shrugged and said, “Mum, I’m busy; maybe some other time?” and returned to his endless games on the computer. That moment was a reflection of our life: I’m willing to do anything for him, and he lives in the illusion that I’ll always bail him out. Friends insist, “Sarah, it’s your house, your rules! Kicking him out might be the only way; otherwise, he’ll never work or think for himself.” Their words sting with truth, but whenever I imagine closing the door behind him, a chill runs 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 to have dinner together.
I’m turning into a grumbling old nag. Every morning, I mutter: “The rubbish is still there, clothes all over the place again.” The maternal instinct is battling with the exhaustion of carrying everything on my own. James doesn’t work steadily — he picks up odd jobs but loses interest quickly. Any money he makes is spent on his entertainment. I’m ashamed to count pennies, embarrassed that I can’t help him with a big purchase, but it hurts even more that he doesn’t try to lighten my load.
A few days ago, I gathered the courage to talk. “James, we need to change something,” I said, my voice trembling. “Time is passing by and you’re treading water. I won’t be around forever, and what then?” He frowned, stood in silence, slammed his door, and locked himself in his room. The conversation fell flat, leaving a feeling inside me, as if I am betraying him, dismantling the love I’ve nurtured since his first steps. But the thoughts won’t stop: maybe my friends are right? Perhaps it’s time to let go, even if it breaks my heart? Other women’s children are building families and raising their own kids at his age, yet here I am cooking him meals, ironing his shirts, and listening to promises that “things will change tomorrow.” This ‘tomorrow’ has stretched into years, and unless I take action, nothing will shift.
Sometimes I think it’s not about “kicking him out,” but finding the words to awaken the desire in him to live independently. But how to do that without causing hurt? He’s sensitive, filled with fears and grudges, and perhaps my overprotectiveness has tethered him here. But I’m human too — I’m tired; I want peace, to live without the constant burden of responsibility for an adult son. Today, as I stood at the sink, I remembered little James helping me put groceries away. He was about five, giving it his all, although awkwardly. 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 waits for no one. I believe that one day James will find the strength to step into a world without my safety net, where he’ll have to stand on his own two feet. But for that, I need to make a decision I’m most afraid of. How do I muster the courage? I don’t know. Yet 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 recriminations. When I finally tell him everything, I can’t predict what will happen. Maybe he’ll leave, slamming the door, cursing me for ‘betrayal.’ Maybe he’ll find freedom and, years later, say ‘thank you’. But I know for sure: I can’t carry this load forever. This realization — part fear, part relief — pounds in my chest like a hammer. A mother’s love is not just about care, but knowing when to say: “Go your own way.” And I have to do it — for him and for myself.
