The alarm blared at half past six on a Sunday morning. Claire groaned, pulling the duvet tighter. The one day she could sleep in, and yet—
“Mother!” bellowed Liam from downstairs. “Where’s my bloody mug? You’ve moved everything again!”
Fifty-two years old. She dragged herself up, wrapped a dressing gown around her shoulders, and caught her reflection in the mirror—a tired woman who couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept through the night. Grey roots peeking through, dark circles carved under her eyes. When had she aged so much?
“Coming,” she muttered, shuffling toward the kitchen.
Liam stood amidst the wreckage. Shards of a plate littered the floor—casualty of his tantrum over the missing mug. Twenty-five, six feet tall, broad-shouldered—yet he raged like a spoiled toddler.
“Here’s your mug,” Claire said, plucking the blue “World’s Best Son” cup from the drying rack.
She’d bought it years ago, back when she still believed he’d grow up, find a job, act like a decent human. Now the slogan felt like a cruel joke.
“Why’d you put it there? I told you—it stays on the table!”
“Liam, love, I washed up last night—”
“Don’t call me that! It’s Liam!”
He snatched the mug, sloshing in cold tea from the pot. Claire stared at the shattered plate. Another mess to clean. Another replacement to buy. Another morning swallowing her fury.
“Mum?” Sophie hovered in the doorway—small, fragile, drowning in an old PJ set. Nineteen but looked sixteen. Studying to be a teacher, if she made it through uni. If home didn’t break her.
“Just a broken plate, love.”
“Oh, it jumped off the counter, did it?” Liam sneered.
Sophie wordlessly fetched the broom. Routine. Normal, even. As if shattered crockery was part of breakfast.
“Leave it!” Liam snapped. “Didn’t ask you to clean!”
“Who else will?” Sophie whispered.
“Not your business!”
Claire sank into a chair, pressing her palms to her temples. God, how much longer? How many more screams, more fights, more wars in her own home?
Ten years since Simon died. Her husband, their father. Heart attack—or maybe he’d just had enough. Back then, Liam was still in college. Dropped out six months later. “Boring.” A job at Tesco? Lasted two weeks. “Boss was a prick.” Construction? “Coworkers were wankers.” Car wash? “Manager’s a slag.” Year after year. First, she hoped he’d find his way. Then begged him to try. Then gave up.
And he’d only grown angrier—at the world, at life, at her and Sophie. But mostly at her. His failures were her fault. His upbringing her mistake. His bills her responsibility.
“Mother, what’s for breakfast?” Liam flopped into a chair.
“Eggs, porridge—”
“Bloody porridge again? Get me proper cereal!”
“We bought cereal two days ago. You finished it.”
“Then buy more!”
“With what? I get paid next Friday.”
“Not my problem!”
Claire opened the fridge. Half a block of cheese, three eggs, stale bread. Seven days till payday. Sophie handed out flyers on weekends—twenty quid a day. Barely covered her bus fare and lunch.
“I can do eggs,” Claire offered.
“With bacon!”
“Out of bacon.”
“Forget it!” He kicked the chair. It clattered to the floor.
“Liam, stop,” Sophie pleaded.
“Shut it! Think you’re better than me? With your useless degree—”
“I didn’t say—”
“You look at me like I’m some—some—”
“Enough!” Claire stepped between them.
“You shut up!” Liam’s face twisted. “I’m suffocating here! This hellhole!”
“No one’s forcing you to stay,” Claire said before she could stop herself.
Liam went still. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You said you’re not keeping me here. Hinting I should piss off?”
“Liam—”
“Answer me!”
She didn’t. But God, she wanted to. Wanted mornings without shouting. Wanted to walk through her own house without flinching.
“Fine. Keep quiet. But know this—I’m not leaving! This is my place too!”
“The deed’s in my name,” Claire said quietly.
“So? I’m your son! I’ve got rights!”
“You’ve got responsibilities. You’re twenty-five.”
“Here we go!” Liam slammed a fist on the table. “I’m the bad son! The layabout! I—”
“You scream at me every day!” Claire’s voice cracked. “You do nothing! Live off me, then blame me for it!”
“Bitch!”
“I’m fifty-two! I work myself to the bone for two grown adults!”
“One’s in uni and helps,” Sophie said softly. “The other—”
“Shut your mouth!” Liam lunged.
“Don’t you dare!” Claire shoved him back.
“Or what? Call the cops? Go on!”
She had. Three times last year. Officers came, listened, scolded Liam. He’d play the penitent son—apologies, promises. They’d leave. Two days later, the cycle repeated.
“You know what?” Liam spat. “I’m done with this!”
He stormed off, door rattling. Silence pooled in the wrecked kitchen.
“Mum,” Sophie whispered. “Maybe stay with Aunt Jo for a while?”
“No. I won’t leave you.”
“There’s got to be another way.”
“Is there?”
“I don’t know. But look at you. You’re a ghost.”
Claire caught her reflection in the microwave. A shadow. A woman who’d forgotten how to laugh.
On Monday, she went to Citizen’s Advice.
A woman named Margaret listened.
“My son,” Claire began. “He’s—”
“Tell me.”
She did. Every scream, every shattered dish, every night spent afraid in her own home.
“How old?”
“Twenty-five.”
“On the deed?”
“No. Just me.”
Margaret scribbled notes. “You could take him to court. Evict him.”
“My own son?”
“An adult making life unbearable. Housing Act covers this—if he’s violating your rights to peaceful enjoyment.”
“But family—”
“Doesn’t excuse abuse. Gather evidence—police reports, neighbor statements.”
Claire thought of Sophie—flinching at slamming doors, shrinking into silence.
“What if he refuses?”
“Bailiffs will enforce it.”
“And where would he go?”
“Not your problem. He’s grown.”
That night, Liam raged over dinner—he wanted microwave lasagna, not the spaghetti she’d made.
“I hate this slop!”
“No lasagna at Sainsbury’s—”
“Then go elsewhere!”
“Shops are closed.”
“I don’t care!” He hurled his plate. Sauce splattered the wall.
“Clean it.”
“Clean it yourself,” Claire said.
“What?”
“You made the mess.”
He loomed over her. “Say that again.”
“Hit me,” she whispered. “Go on. Make it easier for the judge.”
“Liam!” Sophie grabbed his arm. He shoved her—she hit the counter with a gasp.
“Sophie!” Claire helped her up. “Enough! You’ll live where no one screams at you!”
To Liam: “Find a job by month’s end. Or pack your shit.”
“You’d kick me out?”
“Yes.”
Two weeks later, the court ruled: Liam had thirty days to leave.
He read the papers, face purpling.
“You took me to court?”
“Yes.”
“My own mother?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going!”
“Bailiffs will make you.”
He looked at her like a stranger.
“You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
“But I’m your son!”
“You’re an adult. And I won’t let you destroy us anymore.”
He laughed. “Us? You mean her.” A jerk of his chin toward Sophie’s room.
“Maybe hitting rock bottom will teach you responsibility.”
“Fine. I’ll go. But remember—I won’t come back. Not ever.”
“Your choice.”
“Don’t beg for forgiveness!”
“I won’t.”
He packed in three days. No goodbyes.
At the door, he smirked. “Happy?”
“Ask me tomorrow. When I wake up to silence.”
“You’ll die alone. She’ll leave too.”
“Maybe. But it’ll be my life. My peace.”
That evening, rain tapped the windows. Claire and Sophie sipped tea.
“Mum… do you regret it?”
“Which part?”
“HShe looked at her daughter’s quiet smile and knew, for the first time in years, she’d made the right choice.
