Emma woke with a start as something crashed in the kitchen. Again. The clock read half past six on a Sunday morning—the one day she could’ve slept in.
“Mother!” bellowed James from downstairs. “Where’s my mug? You moved everything again!”
Fifty-two years old. She dragged herself out of bed, slipping on her dressing gown. The mirror showed a woman aged by exhaustion, grey roots peeking through her hair, dark circles under her eyes. When had she gotten so old?
“I’m coming,” she muttered, shuffling toward the chaos.
James stood amid the wreckage—a shattered plate on the floor, likely hurled in his hunt for that damn mug. Twenty-five, six feet tall, built like a rugby player, yet throwing tantrums like a toddler.
“Here’s your mug,” Emma said, pulling a blue cup labeled *World’s Best Son* from the dishwasher. She’d bought it years ago, back when she still believed he’d grow up, find a job, act like an adult. Now the phrase felt like a cruel joke.
“Why’d you put it in here? I told you—it stays on the counter!”
“James, I washed up before bed—”
“Don’t call me that! It’s Jim! How many times?” He snatched the mug, sloshing in yesterday’s cold tea. Emma stared at the shards. Another mess to clean. Another plate to replace. Another morning ruined.
“Mum, what happened?” Lily appeared in the doorway—small, fragile, in her worn pyjamas. Nineteen but looking sixteen. A teaching student dreaming of working with kids, if she could focus amid this chaos.
“Nothing, love. Just a broken plate.”
“Broke itself, did it?” Jim sneered.
Lily wordlessly fetched the dustpan. Routine. Like shattered crockery was just part of breakfast.
“Leave it!” Jim barked. “I didn’t ask you to clean!”
“Who will, then?” Lily whispered.
“Not your business!”
Emma sank into a chair, cradling her head. How much longer? The yelling, the slamming, this war in her own home…
Ten years ago, David had died—her husband, their father. A heart attack, or maybe he’d just had enough. Back then, Jim was still in college. Dropped out six months later. *Boring*. A job at Tesco? Two weeks. *Boss was a moron*. Construction? *Coworkers were prats*. Car wash? *Manager was a git*. Year after year, the excuses piled up. First, she’d hoped he’d find his way. Then begged. Then gave up.
He’d grown angrier—at the world, at life, at her and Lily. But most of all, at her. She’d *made* him a failure. She’d raised him wrong. She owed him food, clothes, a roof.
“Mum, what’s for breakfast?” Jim flopped at the table.
“Eggs, porridge—”
“Porridge again? I’m sick of this slop! Buy proper cereal!”
“We got cereal two days ago. You ate it all.”
“So buy more!”
“With what? I get paid next week.”
“Not my problem!”
Emma opened the fridge. Half a block of cheese, three eggs, stale bread. Seven days till payday. Lily handed out flyers on weekends—twenty quid a day, just enough for bus fare and uni lunches.
“I can scramble eggs,” Emma said.
“With bacon!”
“We’re out.”
“Then forget it!” He kicked his chair over.
“Jim, stop,” Lily pleaded.
“Shut it! Think you’re better than me with your stupid degree?”
“I didn’t—”
“You *do*! You look at me like I’m—”
“Enough!” Emma stepped between them.
“*You* shut up! I’m sick of you both! Living in this dump like prisoners!”
“No one’s forcing you to stay,” Emma snapped.
Jim froze. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You *dared* me to leave?”
She stayed silent. But God, she wanted to. To wake to quiet. To not flinch at every noise. To walk freely in her own house.
“Nothing? Fine—I’m not going! This is my place too! I’m on the lease!”
“The mortgage is in *my* name,” Emma said softly.
“So? I’m your son! I’ve got rights!”
“And responsibilities. You’re twenty-five.”
“Here we go!” Jim slammed the table. “I’m a bum! A waster! A—”
“You shout at me *every day*!” Emma’s voice cracked. “You do nothing! You live off me and blame *me* for it!”
“Shut your mouth!”
“No! I’m *tired*! Fifty-two, working myself to the bone feeding two grown adults!”
“*One* studies and helps,” Lily said. “The other—”
“Shut it!” Jim lunged.
“DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!” Emma screamed.
“Or what? Call the cops? Do it! They know me!”
She *had* called. Three times last year. Officers would come, listen, scold Jim. He’d play angel—*Sorry, I’ll change*. They’d leave. Two days later: chaos again.
“You know what?” Jim spat. “I’m going back to bed. *Don’t* wake me.”
The door slammed. Emma and Lily stood amid the wreckage—broken plate, upturned chair, shattered peace.
“Mum,” Lily whispered. “Could you stay with Aunt Sarah for a bit? She offered—”
“No. I won’t leave you with him.”
“There’s got to be another way.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But look at you. You’re a ghost.”
Emma caught her reflection in the microwave. Pale. Hollow. A woman who’d forgotten how to laugh.
——
On Monday, Emma went to Citizens Advice.
A woman named Claire listened as Emma unspooled it all—the shouting, the threats, the fear.
“There’s an option,” Claire said. “You can evict him through court.”
“*Evict* my own son?”
“He’s an adult creating an unlivable environment. The law allows it if he’s abusive or destructive. We’d need police reports, witness statements…”
Emma thought of Lily—flinching at slams, hiding in her room, begging to leave.
“What if he refuses?”
“Bailiffs will enforce the order.”
“And where would he go?”
“That’s *his* problem. He’s grown.”
That night, Emma sat at the kitchen table. Jim raged through the wall—gaming or yelling at someone. Lily studied with headphones on.
Evict him. Was she a monster? A failure?
But he wasn’t a child. At twenty-five, David had owned a car. *She’d* worked two jobs raising Jim.
“Mum?” Lily sat beside her. “What are you thinking?”
“Just… life.”
“My lecturer said parents often feel guilty for grown kids’ choices. But that’s wrong. Adults are responsible for themselves.”
“Smart lecturer.”
“Mum… we can’t live like this.”
“I know.”
——
The solicitor, a no-nonsense woman named Margaret, assured her: “These cases are tough but winnable. Police records. Neighbours’ statements. Proof he doesn’t work or pay rent.”
“How long?”
“Three months, maybe.”
“And if he finds out?”
“More evidence of his behaviour.”
Emma signed the papers, paid half her wages upfront. No regrets.
That evening, Jim erupted over dinner—bangers and mash instead of takeaway.
“I *hate* this slop!”
“The shops were closed—”
“I don’t care! Go to another one!”
He flung his plate. Mashed potato splattered the wall.
“Clean it up,” he ordered.
“You clean it,” Emma said.
“*What*?”
“You made the mess. *You* deal with it.”
“I’m not your maid!”
“And I’m not yours.”
Jim loomed over her. “Say that again.”
“Hit me. Go on. Give the court one more reason.”
“Jim, *stop*!” Lily grabbed his arm.
He shoved her. She hit the wall with a gasp.
“Lily!” Emma helped her up. “That’s *enough*! You *will* get a job or pack your bags.”
“Or *what*?”
“Or I’ll throw you out.”
Two weeks later, the court ruled: James William Thompson must vacate within 30 days.
Emma came home to find him gaming.
“Jim. We need to talk.”
She laid the papers down. His face reddened as he read.
“You—*sued* me?”
“Yes.”
“Your own *son*?”
“You have a month.”
“I’m *not leaving*!”
“The bailiffs will enforceAs the door closed behind him for the last time, Emma exhaled—finally free from the storm she’d endured for far too long.
