**Diary Entry**
“Did you see what your son wrote about you, Mum?” Charlotte’s voice trembled with indignation, the phone nearly slipping from her grasp. “Not me—you! William! Your precious William posted it online!”
Margaret slowly sank onto the kitchen chair, pressing the receiver tighter to her ear. A sharp ache twisted in her stomach, worse than the day the doctors had given Michael his diagnosis.
“What did he say, love?” she whispered, though she already knew it wouldn’t be kind.
“It’s… pages of it! About the kind of mother you’ve been—controlling, suffocating, ruining his life! That you’re why he can’t make relationships work! Mum, I can’t even read the comments—people are vile!”
Margaret closed her eyes. The kitchen darkened around her, the hum of the fridge the only sound. On the table, his untouched shepherd’s pie had gone cold—William hadn’t come home for dinner, though she’d made it just how he liked.
“Are you still there?” Charlotte’s voice sharpened with worry.
“I’m here, darling. What do the comments say?”
“Don’t make me repeat them. Just don’t read it, alright? Your heart… I’ll come over.”
“No, love. It’s late—get the children to bed. I’ll… manage.”
After hanging up, she sat motionless. Outside, the October dusk deepened, streetlights flickering on. A child’s distant cry, the slam of a door—ordinary sounds of an evening now ruptured.
William came home near eleven, smelling of lager and cigarettes. She met him in the hall, watching as he toed off his trainers without looking up.
“Did you eat?” she asked quietly.
“Not hungry.” He hung his coat, still avoiding her eyes.
“William…”
“What?” He turned sharply, and she saw something unfamiliar in his gaze—anger? Shame?
“Why did you write that?”
He rubbed his brow, silent. She noticed, suddenly, how much older he looked. Thirty-two, yet she still saw the boy who’d come home from school, chattering about football and detentions.
“Mum, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said finally. “But I’m… stuck. The breakup with Emily, work’s a mess. My therapist said I needed to voice childhood wounds.”
“Wounds?” Her voice wavered. “What wounds, Will? What did I do?”
“You were always… too much. Remember uni? Calling daily to ask if I’d eaten, if I’d worn a coat? Befriending my flatmate to ‘keep an eye’ on me?”
She leaned against the wall. She remembered that flatmate—Lucy. A kind girl from a big family. Margaret had given her mince pies, asked her to remind William to eat. Was that so wrong?
“And the weekends,” he continued, stepping into the lounge. “You’d turn up with Tupperwares of soup, do my laundry. The lads took the mick.”
“I was trying to help,” she said softly. “After Dad died—”
“That’s it!” He stiffened. “You poured all that love into us—we couldn’t breathe! Charlotte married, left, but me…”
“And what? Did I stop you? Keep you from marrying?”
William slumped onto the sofa, hands over his face.
“You don’t get it. You never outright forbade anything. But you were always there. Girlfriends felt redundant—why would they need me when I had a mum who did everything?”
“Emily thought that too?”
“She said I was… stunted. Thirty-two, living with Mum like a teenager. That I needed to grow up.”
Margaret moved to the kitchen, kettle shaking in her grip. William followed, lingering in the doorway.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I had to say it. Online felt… easier. People share advice—”
“What did they advise?” she asked, back turned.
“Some said move out. Others, to set boundaries. A few admitted they’ve the same struggles.”
She poured tea, added sugar. Memories surfaced—twenty years ago, in this same kitchen, brewing tea for Michael during chemo. His hand gripping hers: *Promise you’ll look after them. Promise.*
“Are you crying?” William’s voice cut through.
She hadn’t noticed the tears. Wiping them with her sleeve, she faced him.
“Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I… smothered you. After your father, I was terrified. Of failing you both.”
He stepped closer, awkwardly hugging her shoulders.
“You didn’t fail. But I need to learn to stand on my own.”
“So you’ll move out?”
“Dunno yet. Maybe.”
They drank in silence. Margaret studied him, imagining the flat empty—no one to wake, no dinners to cook. Terrifying, yet… freeing?
“What did Charlotte say?” he asked.
“Upset. Wanted to defend me.”
“Course she did. Our justice warrior.” He smirked weakly. “You’re not angry?”
She considered. Hurt, yes. Ashamed. But anger? No.
“No, love. Maybe you’ve helped me see something.”
“Which is?”
“That I’ve a right to my own life. I’m only fifty-eight.”
His brows shot up.
“Thinking of something?”
“Eileen from work keeps nagging me to join her drama club. Kept saying no—too busy. But maybe it’s time?”
“Mum, that’s brilliant! Go for it!”
“And…” She hesitated. “Mr. Harrison from number twelve’s asked me to the cinema. I worried you’d mind.”
William choked on his tea. “Bloody hell! He’s decent—widowed, doesn’t drink. Nice house, too.”
“How d’you know about his house?”
“Fixed his telly last month. He mentioned you—fancied you for ages.”
Her cheeks warmed. Fancy that—her son knew of secret admirers.
“Perhaps you should move out,” she said suddenly.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Find a flat—just visit sometimes, alright?”
“’Course I will! And I’ll learn to cook. Been saving recipes.”
“God help your future wife if you serve her burnt bangers,” she laughed.
“And you’re not bothered? About strangers reading… us?”
She shrugged. At first, the thought had chilled her—judgement, pity. But what of it? Every mother makes mistakes. If their story helped someone, let it be.
“No, love. Keep it up. Just warn me next time you air our laundry online.”
He grinned. “Deal.”
After tea, he retreated to his room. Margaret stayed, gazing at the darkened courtyard. Across the way, a young mother read to her child.
*What will that child think of her when he’s grown?* she wondered. *Will he blame her? Or understand parents are only human?*
Her phone lit up—Charlotte: *You okay? Spoken to Will?*
Margaret typed: *All fine, darling. We talked. Sleep well.*
She sat a while longer, thinking. Tomorrow, she’d call Mr. Harrison—yes to the cinema. She’d sign up for drama club. William might leave. It would ache, but it was right.
After all, everyone deserves their own life. And their own mistakes, too.
