“Mother, have you seen what your son wrote about you?” Emma’s voice trembled with indignation, the phone nearly slipping from her grasp. “No, not me—you! William! Your precious William! He posted it online!”
Eleanor slowly lowered herself onto the kitchen chair, pressing the receiver tighter to her ear. Something twisted painfully in her stomach, just like when the doctors had given Michael his diagnosis—only worse.
“What did he write, love?” she whispered, though she already suspected it would be nothing good.
“It’s… it’s an entire essay! About what kind of mother you’ve been! That you controlled him his whole life, never let him breathe! That because of you, he can’t make a relationship work! Mum, I can’t even read it all—my hands are shaking! And the comments… God, the things people are saying!”
Eleanor closed her eyes. The kitchen seemed to darken around her, the hum of the fridge the only sound left in the quiet evening. On the table, a half-eaten plate of shepherd’s pie had gone cold—William hadn’t come home for dinner, though she’d made it just the way he liked, with extra gravy.
“Mum, are you listening?” Emma’s voice sharpened with worry.
“I hear you, love. What do the comments say?”
“I won’t repeat them. You shouldn’t read them either, alright? Your heart… I’ll come over, yeah?”
“No need, Em. It’s late—get the children to bed. I’ll… I’ll sort it.”
After hanging up, Eleanor sat motionless for a long while. Outside, the October dusk thickened, the streetlamps flickering on. Somewhere, a child wailed, a front door slammed. The ordinary sounds of an ordinary evening—only now, everything inside her had turned upside down.
William came home close to eleven, smelling of beer and cigarettes. Eleanor met him in the hallway, watching as he tugged off his shoes without looking at her.
“Fancy some supper?” she asked softly.
“Not hungry.” He hung his coat on the peg, still avoiding her gaze.
“William…”
“What?” He turned sharply, and in his eyes, she saw something unfamiliar—anger? Shame? Justification?
“Why did you write that?”
Her son rubbed the bridge of his nose. For the first time, Eleanor noticed how much older he looked these past months. William was thirty-two now, yet she still saw the boy who’d raced home from school, babbling about football and detentions.
“Mum, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said at last. “It’s just… I’m in a rough patch. Split with Sophie, trouble at work. The therapist said I need to process my childhood… baggage.”
“Baggage?” Eleanor repeated. “What baggage, Will? What did I ever do to you?”
“Mum, come on… You were always too… much. Remember how you’d ring me at uni every day? Ask if I’d eaten, if I’d worn a jumper? How you befriended my flatmate and asked her to keep an eye on me?”
Eleanor leaned against the wall. She remembered that girl—Hannah. Sweet thing, from a big family. She’d given her mince pies, asked her to remind William to eat if he forgot. What was wrong with that?
“And remember,” William went on, stepping into the lounge, “how you’d visit every weekend? Bring tins of soup, do my laundry? The lads took the mickey.”
“I wanted to help,” she murmured. “After your father died, it was just you and Emma—”
“That’s it!” he snapped. “You poured all that leftover love onto us! We were drowning! Em at least got married, moved out, but me—”
“And you what? Did I forbid anything? Stop you settling down?”
William dropped onto the sofa, his head in his hands.
“Mum, you don’t get it. You never outright said no. But you were always there. Always. Feeding my girlfriends, fussing over them—till they felt like they didn’t belong. Why would they need me when I had a mum who did everything?”
“Did Sophie think that too?”
“Sophie…” He sighed heavily. “Sophie said I was acting like a child. That at thirty-two, living with my mum was pathetic. That I needed to grow up.”
Eleanor walked slowly to the kitchen, flicked the kettle on. Her hands shook as she set out the mugs. William followed, lingering in the doorway.
“Mum, I never meant to wound you. But I had to get it out, you know? Online… it’s easier. People share their stories, give advice…”
“And what advice did they give?” she asked, not turning around.
“Mixed. Some said I should move out. Others said to set boundaries. A few wrote they’ve got the same trouble.”
She poured the tea, added sugar. Remembered standing in this same spot twenty years ago, brewing a cup for Michael when the chemo made him sick. How he’d begged her not to leave, gripping her hand, whispering, “Ellie, promise you’ll look after the children. Don’t let the world hurt them.”
“Mum, what’s wrong?” William’s voice cut through the memory. “You’re crying?”
She hadn’t even noticed the tears. Wiping them with her sleeve, she turned to him.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I did… too much. I was just afraid. After your father died, I was terrified of losing you both. Terrified I wouldn’t manage alone. That I couldn’t be both parents.”
William stepped closer, awkwardly hugging her shoulders.
“Mum, you did fine. We turned out alright. But now I’ve got to learn how to be a proper adult.”
“So you’ll move out?”
“Dunno yet. Maybe. Need to think.”
They drank their tea in silence. Eleanor studied her son, trying to picture the flat without him—no one to wake for work, no supper to cook, no one to ask when he’d be home. It frightened her. And yet… there was something else. Something like relief.
“What did Em say?” William asked.
“She was upset. Wanted to rush over, defend me.”
“Course she did. Our little warrior.” He grinned weakly. “Mum… you’re not angry?”
Eleanor considered it. It hurt. It stung. She wanted to argue, to prove she’d been a good mother. But anger? No.
“No, love. Maybe you helped me see something.”
“Like what?”
“That I’ve a right to my own life, too. I’m only fifty-eight. That’s not so old.”
William blinked.
“What’re you on about?”
“Oh, nothing… Margaret from work keeps asking me to join her amateur dramatics group. I always said no—too busy. But maybe it’s time?”
“Mum, that’s brilliant! You should go!”
“And…” She hesitated. “Mr. Thompson from number twelve’s asked me to the pictures a few times. I was afraid you’d mind.”
“Mum!” William nearly choked on his tea. “That’s fantastic! He’s a decent bloke—widowed, doesn’t drink. Nice house, too.”
“How d’you know about his house?”
“Went round to fix his telly last month. He mentioned you. Said he’d wanted to ask you out for ages, but didn’t dare.”
Eleanor’s cheeks burned. All this time, and her son had known about her secret admirer.
“Maybe you should move out,” she said suddenly.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. If you find a decent flat. Just… visit sometimes, eh?”
“’Course I will! And I’ll learn to cook, swear down. Been looking up recipes.”
“Can’t have your future wife starving,” Eleanor laughed.
“Mum… you won’t fret about strangers reading all that?”
She shrugged. At first, the thought of strangers dissecting her motherhood had made her sick. But then she thought: so what? Every mother makes mistakes. Every mother loves imperfectly. And if her story helped someone else? Let them talk.
“Know what, Will? I don’t mind. Might do someone some good.”
“And you won’t ask me to take it down?”
“No. Leave it up. Just warn me next time you air our family business online.”
“Promise.”
They finished their tea, and William retreated to his room. Eleanor stayed at the kitchen window, watching the darkened street. In the flat across the way, a young mother read to her child, the boy cuddled in her lap.
I wonder, Eleanor thought, what will that child think of his mother when he’s grown? Will he blame her for his troubles? Or will he understand that parents are only human, fumbling their way through?
Her phone lit up—a message from Emma: “Mum, you okay? Spoken to Will?”
Eleanor typed back: “All fine, love. We talked. Ring you tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
Then she sat awhile longer, thinking. Tomorrow, she’d call Mr. Thompson, say
