Only under the veil of anonymity can I confess to whats weighing on me today. Im so filled with frustration, its become almost unbearable. I know I may face criticism, but I hope mothers will understandespecially those whose children have suddenly become adults before their eyes.
You dedicate your whole life to raising your child. You split from his father because you can’t go on together, and you soldier on, determined your child never feels the absence. You work two jobs, spend your evenings at the cooker as if it were a third shift, buy all those newfangled gadgets, pay for school, and then one day:
Mum, Emilys going to live with us.
With whom, exactly? In our little London flat, barely forty-four square metres? Emilys going to share my sons bedroom? Shell eat our food? Use the washing machine? Will there be two women running the house now?
My son was filled with joy as he told me, half expecting Id throw my arms around the pair of them and rush to empty a wardrobe for Emily on the spot.
Shes a nice enough girl, Ill give her that, but that doesnt mean I want someone else living in my home. If theyre so grown up, why not get a mortgage or at least rent a flat? Whats the point of saving money if its at the expense of his own mums nerves?
But despite my protests, I let the girl in. My son has just as much right to this flat, after all, so he brought her home. Im not being honest, though; I promised myself Id write the truth. My friends scold me: Dont you care about your sons happiness? What sort of mother are you?
Now I come home and its all aggravation, right from the threshold. Shoes scattered in the hallway, the cooker grimy in the kitchenEmily must have been baking again. What if she used up all the eggs or the flour I just bought? I watch my pennies; I dont waste money. What happens when, halfway through making tea, you find youre out of milk? And dont get me started on the endless queue for the bathroom.
Ill admit it. I want Emily out of my flat. I dont need another housekeeper here.
The other day, a thought struck me: what if I brought a man home? Why did I spend so many years putting my sons needs first and keeping my own private life quiet? Hes got his own life, but why shouldnt I bring someone over with a suitcase and see how we all get by in forty-four square metres?
Its the sort of letter few would admit to penning. As a mum to a young boy myself, its hard to put myself in the writers shoes, so Im curious what others think.
How about you, dear readers? Have your own children reached that age? Have you ever faced living with your childs partner? Is it right for a woman to ask her sons girlfriend to leave? Or is compromise something every family must learn? Sometimes we forget that, as life changes, so too must our homesand our hearts. If we want respect and understanding from those we love, we must be willing to offer the same in return.
