In a quiet corner of London, beneath the glow of a dim kitchen lamp, Margaret Whitmore sank onto her chair, the telephone pressed tightly to her ear. Her daughter’s voice trembled with indignation on the other end.
“Mother, have you seen what Edward posted about you? No, not me—you! Your precious Eddie! He’s written all about you on social media!”
Margaret’s stomach twisted, much as it had years ago when the doctors delivered Michael’s diagnosis. Only worse.
“What did he say, Emily?” she whispered, though she already knew it would be nothing kind.
“It’s an entire essay! About what kind of mother you’ve been, how you controlled him, never let him live his life! People are commenting—horrible things, Mum. I can’t even read them!”
Margaret closed her eyes. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence. On the table, a plate of uneaten shepherd’s pie cooled—Edward’s favourite, though he hadn’t come home for supper.
“Emily, tell me what they’re saying.”
“You don’t want to know. Honestly. I’ll come over, all right?”
“No, dear. It’s late. You’ve got the children to put to bed. I’ll manage.”
She hung up and sat motionless as dusk settled over the garden. A child cried somewhere down the street, a door slammed. An ordinary evening, yet everything inside her felt overturned.
Edward returned close to eleven, smelling of beer and cigarettes. Margaret met him in the hallway, watching as he untied his shoes, avoiding her gaze.
“Would you like supper?” she asked quietly.
“Not hungry.” He hung his coat without looking up.
“Eddie…”
“What?” He turned sharply, and in his eyes, she saw something unfamiliar—anger? Shame?
“Why did you write that?”
He rubbed his brow, hesitating. For the first time, she noticed how much older he looked these past months. He was thirty-two now, yet she still saw the little boy who’d rush home from school, chattering about football and scraped knees.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said at last. “I’m just—going through a rough patch. Sarah and I broke up, work’s been difficult. My therapist said I needed to process childhood wounds.”
“Wounds?” Margaret repeated. “What wounds, Eddie? What did I ever do?”
“It’s not what you did. It’s that you were always… too involved. Remember when I was at university? You’d call every day, asking if I’d eaten, if I’d dressed warmly? You even befriended my flatmate, asked her to keep an eye on me!”
Margaret leaned against the wall. Yes, she remembered Claire—a kind girl from Yorkshire. She’d brought her homemade scones, asked her to remind Eddie to eat. What was wrong with that?
“And on weekends,” Edward continued, stepping into the sitting room, “you’d visit with tins of soup, do my laundry. The lads all laughed at me.”
“I wanted to help,” she murmured. “After your father died—”
“Exactly!” His voice rose. “You poured all that love into us, and we couldn’t breathe! Emily got married, moved away, but I—”
“But you what? Did I ever stop you from anything? From marrying?”
Edward dropped onto the sofa, head in his hands. “Mum, you don’t understand. You never said no outright, but you were always there. Every girlfriend I brought home, you’d fuss over them, make them feel unnecessary. Why would they need me when I had a mother who did everything?”
“Did Sarah feel that way?”
“Sarah said I was… immature. That at thirty-two, I still lived with my mum like a teenager. That I needed to grow up.”
Margaret walked to the kitchen, hands shaking as she set the kettle boiling. Edward followed, lingering in the doorway.
“I didn’t mean to wound you. Truly. But I needed to say it—and online, it was easier. People shared advice, experiences…”
“What advice did they give?” she asked, her back still turned.
“Some said I should move out. Others said to set boundaries. A few wrote that they had the same struggles.”
She poured the tea, stirred in sugar. She remembered standing in this same spot twenty years ago, brewing tea for Michael during his treatments. How he’d held her hand and whispered, “Margaret, promise you’ll look after the children. Promise you’ll keep them safe.”
“Mum?” Edward’s voice pulled her back. “You’re crying.”
She hadn’t realised. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she turned. “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I was… too much. I was afraid, Eddie. After your father died, I was terrified of losing you both. Terrified I wouldn’t be enough.”
He stepped closer, awkwardly embracing her. “You were enough. We turned out all right. But now I need to learn how to stand on my own.”
“Will you move out?”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet.”
They drank their tea in silence. Margaret studied him, trying to picture the flat empty. No one to wake in the mornings, no supper to cook, no one to ask when he’d be home. It was frightening—and yet, somehow, freeing.
“What did Emily say?” he asked.
“She was upset. Wanted to defend me.”
“Of course. She’s always been the fighter.” He gave a crooked smile. “Mum, are you angry with me?”
She considered it. It hurt, yes. There was shame, defensiveness. But anger? No.
“No, Eddie. I’m not. Maybe you’ve helped me realise something.”
“What?”
“That I’ve a right to my own life too. I’m only fifty-eight—that’s not so old.”
He blinked. “What are you thinking?”
“Well… Maggie from work’s been urging me to join the amateur dramatics society. I’ve always said no—too busy. But perhaps it’s time.”
“That’s brilliant! You should do it!”
“And…” She hesitated. “Mr. Thompson from number twelve has asked me to the cinema. I was afraid you’d disapprove.”
Eddie nearly choked on his tea. “Mum! That’s wonderful! He’s a decent man—widowed, doesn’t drink. Nice house, too.”
“How do you know about his house?”
“I fixed his telly last month. He mentioned you—said he’d wanted to get to know you better but didn’t dare.”
Her cheeks warmed. To think, all this time, her son had known of her secret admirer.
“Perhaps you really should move out,” she said suddenly.
“You mean it?”
“I do—if you find somewhere reasonable. Just… visit sometimes, won’t you?”
“Of course! And I’ll learn to cook, I swear. Been looking up recipes.”
“Imagine your bride arriving to find you can’t even make a roast,” she laughed.
“Mum… you’re not upset about what people online are saying?”
She shrugged. At first, the thought of strangers dissecting her motherhood had stung. But now? Every parent made mistakes. Every love was imperfect. If their story helped someone else untangle their own family knots, so be it.
“No, Eddie. I’m not. Maybe someone will find it useful.”
“You won’t ask me to take it down?”
“No. Leave it up. Just warn me next time before airing our family business to the world.”
“I will.”
He finished his tea and retreated to his room. Margaret stayed at the window, watching the darkened street. In the flat across the way, a young mother read to her child, the boy curled in her lap.
What would that child think of his mother one day? Would he blame her for his struggles? Or would he understand that parents, too, were only human?
Her phone lit up—a message from Emily. “Mum, how are things? Have you spoken to Eddie?”
She typed back: “All’s well, darling. We’ve talked. I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep well.”
For a long while, she sat and thought. Tomorrow, she’d ring Mr. Thompson, accept his cinema invitation. She’d sign up for the dramatics society. Perhaps Eddie would find his own flat, and though it would ache, it would be right.
After all, everyone deserved their own life—and their own mistakes, too.
