“Did you see what your son wrote about you?” Sarah’s voice trembled with indignation, the phone nearly slipping from her grasp. “No, not me—you! William! Your precious Will! He posted it online!”
Margaret 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 the answer wouldn’t be kind.
“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 keep a relationship! Mum, I can’t even read it—my hands are shaking! And the comments… God, the things people are saying!”
Margaret closed her eyes. The kitchen darkened around her, only the hum of the fridge breaking the silence, just like every evening. On the table, his untouched shepherd’s pie had gone cold—Will hadn’t come home for dinner, though she’d made it just how he liked, with extra gravy.
“Mum, are you listening?” Sarah’s voice sharpened with worry.
“I hear you, darling. What are people saying?”
“I won’t repeat it. You shouldn’t read it, alright? Not with your heart… I’ll come over, yeah?”
“No, Sarah. It’s late, you’ve got the kids to put down. I’ll… I’ll sort it.”
After hanging up, Margaret sat motionless for a long while. Outside, October dusk settled over the estate, streetlamps flickering to life. Somewhere, a child wailed, a door slammed. Ordinary sounds of an ordinary evening—only everything inside her had turned upside down.
Will came home just past eleven, smelling of lager and cigarettes. Margaret met him in the hallway, watching as he toed off his trainers without looking at her.
“Fancy a bite?” she asked softly.
“Not hungry.” He slung his jacket over the hook, still avoiding her eyes.
“Will…”
“What?” He spun around sharply, and for the first time, she saw something unfamiliar in his gaze. Anger? Shame? Justification?
“Why’d you write that?”
He rubbed his forehead, silent for a beat. Margaret noticed, suddenly, how much older he looked these past months. Will was thirty-two now, but she still saw the boy who’d raced home from school, gabbing about football and detention slips.
“Mum, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said finally. “It’s just… I’m in a rough patch. Split with Emily, work’s a mess. The therapist said I needed to voice my childhood stuff.”
“Childhood stuff?” Margaret leaned against the wall. “What stuff, Will? What did I do?”
“Mum, come on… You were always too… much. Remember uni? Calling every day, asking if I’d eaten, if I’d worn a jumper? Befriending my flatmate just to keep tabs on me?”
She remembered that flatmate—Lucy. Sweet girl, one of six. Margaret had brought her mince pies, asked her to nudge Will if he skipped meals. What was so wrong with that?
“And remember,” Will went on, stepping into the lounge, “how you’d turn up every weekend? Bring Tupperware of soup, do my laundry? The lads took the mick.”
“I wanted to help,” she murmured. “After your dad died…”
“That’s it!” Will snapped. “You poured all that love into us like we were buckets! We couldn’t breathe! Sarah got out—married, moved away—but me…”
“But you what? Did I forbid you? Stop you settling down?”
Will slumped onto the sofa, face in his hands. “Mum, you don’t get it. Yeah, you never said no outright. But you were always there. Always. My girlfriends got fed, fussed over, then they felt like spare parts. Why’d they need me when I’ve got a mum who does everything?”
“Emily thought that too?”
“Emily…” He exhaled heavily. “Said I was stuck. Thirty-two, living with Mum like a teenager. Said I needed to grow up.”
Margaret walked to the kettle, hands trembling as she set out mugs. Will hovered in the doorway.
“Mum, I didn’t mean to wound you. Swear down. But I had to say it, yeah? Online just… made it easier. People share advice, you know?”
“And what’d they advise?” she asked, her back to him.
“Mixed bag. Some said move out. Others said set boundaries. Some wrote they’ve got the same mums.”
She poured the tea, added sugar. Remembered standing in this same spot twenty years ago, brewing a cuppa for Michael after chemo. How he’d clutched her hand, whispered, “Peggy, promise you’ll look after the kids. Don’t let the world harden them.”
“Mum, you okay?” Will’s voice cut through. “You’re crying?”
She hadn’t noticed the tears. Wiped them with her sleeve, turned.
“Maybe you’re right, Will. Maybe I did… overdo it. I was scared. After your dad died, I was terrified of losing you both. Terrified I’d fail.”
He stepped closer, awkwardly hugged her shoulders.
“Mum, you didn’t fail. We turned out alright. But I’ve got to learn to stand on my own.”
“So you’ll move out?”
“Dunno yet. Maybe. Need to think.”
They drank in silence. Margaret watched him, trying to picture the flat empty. No one to wake, no dinners for two, no “What time’ll you be back?” Terrifying—and yet, oddly freeing?
“What’d Sarah say?” Will asked.
“Dead upset. Wanted to storm over, defend my honour.”
“Course she did. Our Sarah’s always up for a scrap.” He smirked. “Mum… you’re not mad at me?”
She thought. Hurt? Yes. Ashamed? Yes. Wanted to argue she’d been a good mum? Yes. But anger? Strangely absent.
“No, love. Not mad. Maybe you helped me see something.”
“Like what?”
“That I’ve got a right to my own life too. I’m only fifty-eight. Not exactly ancient.”
Will blinked. “What’re you on about?”
“Oh… Linda from work’s been nagging me to join her drama club. For seniors. Always said no—too busy. But maybe it’s time?”
“Mum, that’s brilliant! Do it!”
“And…” She hesitated. “Mr. Thompson from number twelve’s asked me to the pictures. Was scared you’d think it odd.”
“Mum!” Will nearly spat out his tea. “That’s smashing! He’s a decent bloke—widower, doesn’t drink. Nice house, too.”
“How d’you know about his house?”
“Helped him fix his telly last month. He’s sweet on you. Said he’d fancied asking you out for ages but chickened out.”
Her cheeks burned. Fancy that—her son knew about her secret admirer.
“Maybe you should move out,” she said suddenly.
“You mean it?”
“Mean it. If you find a decent flat. Just… visit sometimes, yeah?”
“‘Course I will! And I’ll learn to cook, swear down. Been watching recipes online.”
“Can’t have your future wife thinking you’ll starve,” Margaret chuckled.
“Mum… you won’t fret about strangers reading all that?”
She shrugged. At first, the idea of strangers dissecting her motherhood had chilled her. But then—so what? Every mum mucks it up. Every mum loves wrong. And if her mistakes helped someone else? Let them talk.
“Honestly, Will, no. Might do someone some good.”
“You won’t ask me to take it down?”
“No. Keep it up. Just warn me next time you air our laundry online.”
“Deal.”
They finished their tea, and Will retreated to his room. Margaret stayed at the table, gazing at the darkened estate. In the flat opposite, a young mum read to her toddler, the child curled in her lap.
Funny, Margaret thought. What’ll that child think of his mum one day? Blame her? Or realise parents are just people, fumbling in the dark?
Her phone lit up—a text from Sarah: *You alright? Spoke to Will?*
Margaret typed back: *All fine, love. Sorted. Chat tomorrow. Night.*
Then she sat, thinking. About phoning Mr. Thompson tomorrow, saying yes to the pictures. About signing up for drama club. About Will maybe moving out. About how it’d ache, but be right.
Everyone’s entitled to their own life. Their own mistakes, too.
