Talk to him, Lizzie… Or to her? Or perhaps just to yourself…
— Lizzie, please… He’ll get himself killed out there! — Her mother’s voice trembled with tears.
— Mum, what makes you think that?
— You know how he is! He’s still just a boy! — Julia nearly cried out.
— He’s twenty-five. Next month. A boy… — Lizzie bit back her frustration and exhaled quietly into the phone. — Fine. I’ll call him…
She ended the call and pressed her lips together.
*Arthur, Arthur… All anyone talks about is him. And me? I’m just background noise, an extra in someone else’s drama. Lizzie’s grown, Lizzie’s independent, Lizzie doesn’t cry—so she mustn’t hurt. Doesn’t anyone ask—how am I? What’s happening in my life?*
— It started after Dad died, — Lizzie told her friend Emma, stirring her coffee absently.
— Grief, stress, heartache, — Emma nodded. — But it’s been two years…
— Exactly! And yet she’s latched onto him, onto Arthur, like he’s her last lifeline. Her whole world revolves around him now. It’s like she’s erased herself.
— And you?
— Me? — Lizzie smirked. — I’m here, but I don’t count. There’s some unbreakable bond between her and my brother. Fine, if it weren’t so… suffocating. He’s only two years younger, but she treats him like a baby—feeding him, fussing, reading his mind…
— Maybe he looks like your father?
— They all did—Arthur, Dad’s old school photos. Must’ve skipped me, though. Different DNA.
Lizzie was twenty-seven. Worked at a law firm, rented a small flat in an old building near Russell Square. Her love life was… uneventful. After a couple of failed relationships, she’d decided to focus on herself for a while.
Arthur was different. Lifelong lethargy, always lost in thought, allergic to effort. School had been a struggle, university was somewhere “without maths.” Dad, before he passed, had sat him down for a talk, and Arthur had reluctantly chosen a path.
Then—Dad’s death. Sudden, brutal. Mum shattered. Sickness, doctors, pills, prayers. Her work nearly collapsed. And Arthur became her only solace.
Her comfort-boy. Even though he hadn’t been a boy for years.
He got a job. Barely contributed, but always showed up for dinner before retreating to his computer. That was his life—until Alina came along.
At Christmas, Lizzie visited. Arthur, glued to his phone, grinned at the screen, muttered nonsense. Lizzie knew—love. She was happy for him.
But Mum was tense.
— You should see him! — Julia fretted when they were alone in the kitchen. — Used to sleep till noon, now he works like a horse. Weekends, overtime—all for Alina! Saving for a ring, flowers, dinners… For their “future.”
— Mum, what’s wrong with him growing up? — Lizzie frowned. — Isn’t that what you wanted?
— Not like this! They’re always off somewhere—mountains, kayaking… all this madness! What if something happens? I’d be left alone…
— You can’t keep him in a bubble, — Lizzie sighed. — He’s living. That’s normal.
Time passed. Lizzie was in a café, fork in her borscht, when her phone lit up—*Mum*. She exhaled and answered.
— He didn’t come home last night, Lizzie! He stayed at hers, warned me, but I hoped he wouldn’t—
— He’s nearly twenty-five. He’s an adult. This is normal.
— To me, he’s a child! I didn’t sleep. Talk to him, please. He won’t listen to me. But he’ll listen to you.
Lizzie agreed. But wondered—should she? Maybe he didn’t need a lecture, just space. Or nothing at all—he’d figure it out.
Then came horseback riding.
— He’ll break his neck! — Mum sobbed over the phone. — Or his back! Let Alina do it. Why must he?!
Next—a camping trip. Autumn. Tents, hiking.
— He’ll freeze! — Julia wailed. — His immune system’s weak! What about bears? Ticks? Lizzie, talk to him! He’ll listen to you!
— You know, — Lizzie confided in Emma, — I’m not a sister anymore. I’m a messenger between two battlefronts. Mum says—tell him. He says—tell her. I’m stuck in the middle!
— Maybe he’ll move out soon? — Emma mused.
— I told him—marry her and leave. Far away. Breathe. Away from her.
Then—silence.
Mum stopped calling. No pleas, no complaints. Lizzie grew uneasy. Called her.
— How are things, Mum?
— Fine, dear. Arthur and Alina broke up. She… moved on. Someone else. He’s heartbroken.
— I see…
— He’s home again. Moping. Glued to his computer. But at least he’s not drinking. And he’s close. Selfish of me, but it’s a relief. He’s back, Lizzie… Just like his father. I still love him, you know. Still cry every night.
Three months later, Arthur called.
— Can I bring Natalie over? Want you to meet her.
Lizzie laughed.
— Of course.
But she thought: *Here we go again. Mum will lose it. Cry. Call. Worry. And I’ll have to introduce my own bloke at some point…*
She and Simon had trip plans. The Lake District. And the thought made her anxious—what if Mum found out?
*She’ll panic over me too. What if I fall off a horse? Freeze in a tent? What if I have a child, and she latches onto them next?*
Lizzie sat on the bed, whispered:
— God, this is exhausting…
She hit her knee with a fist and cried. Because she loved them too much. Her mother. Her brother. And she just wanted them… to stop being so afraid. To love without losing themselves.
Maybe that was the answer. Not talking to him. Not to her. To herself. And giving herself permission to be happy.
