**October 12th**
“Talk to him, Emily… Or to her? Or maybe just to yourself.”
“Emily, please… He’ll get himself killed out there!” Mum’s voice trembled with tears.
“Mum, what makes you say that?”
“You know why! He’s still just a boy to me!” Julia nearly sobbed into the phone.
“He’s twenty-five next month. A boy…” Emily bit her tongue, exhaling quietly to keep from shouting. “Fine. I’ll call him.”
She ended the call and pressed her lips together.
“Arthur, Arthur… That’s all she ever talks about. And me? I’m just background noise, an extra in someone else’s drama. ‘Emily’s so grown-up, so independent, never cries—so she must be fine.’ She never asks how I am, what’s happening in my life…”
“It started after Dad died,” Emily told her friend Hannah, stirring her tea absently.
“Grief, stress, heartache,” Hannah nodded. “But it’s been two years…”
“Exactly! And yet she’s latched onto Arthur like he’s her last lifeline. Her whole world revolves around him now. It’s like she’s reset herself.”
“And you?”
“Me?” Emily scoffed. “I’m there, but I don’t count. She’s got this… special bond with him. Fine, except it’s turned into something unhealthy. He’s only two years younger, and she treats him like a toddler—feeding him, fretting over him, guessing his every thought…”
“Maybe he looks like your dad?”
“They *all* did—Arthur, Dad’s old school photos. Must’ve skipped me.”
Emily was twenty-seven. Worked at a law firm, rented a flat in an old building near King’s Cross. Her love life? Neutral. After a couple of failed relationships, she’d decided to focus on herself for a while.
Arthur was different. Lazy, absentminded, allergic to effort. Barely scraped through school, picked a degree that didn’t require maths. Dad—still alive then—had a bloke’s chat with him, and Arthur reluctantly settled on something.
Then Dad died. Suddenly, brutally. Mum shattered. Doctors, pills, prayers. Her job almost collapsed. And Arthur? The one bright spot.
Her comfort *boy*. Though he hadn’t been a boy in years.
He got a job, though most of his wages stayed in his pocket. Still, he came home for dinner, then straight to the sofa and his console. That was his life. Until Alina.
At New Year’s, Emily visited Mum. Arthur was glued to his phone, grinning like an idiot, mumbling to himself. Emily knew—*love*. And weirdly, she was happy for him.
Mum wasn’t.
“You should *see* him!” Julia wailed when they were alone in the kitchen. “Used to sleep till noon, now he’s working like a dog! Overtime, side jobs—all for Alina. ‘For our future,’ he says. Saving for a ring, restaurants, flowers… Since when does *he* save?”
“Mum, isn’t this what you wanted? For him to grow up?” Emily frowned.
“Not like *this*! They’re always off somewhere—hiking, canoeing, God knows what! What if something happens? I’ll be alone—”
“You can’t wrap him in cotton wool, Mum,” Emily sighed. “He’s *living*. That’s normal.”
Weeks later, Emily was at lunch, fork in her borscht, when her phone lit up—*Mum*. She answered, bracing herself.
“He didn’t come home last night, Emily! He *stayed* at hers. Warned me, but I’d hoped—”
“Mum, he’s nearly twenty-five. He’s an adult. This is normal.”
“Not to *me*! I didn’t sleep! Talk to him, *please*. He won’t listen to me anymore.”
Emily promised. But wondered—should she? Maybe he didn’t need his sister’s advice. Maybe he needed to figure it out himself.
Then came the new obsession: horse riding.
“He’ll break his *neck*!” Mum sobbed. “Why can’t *she* ride alone? Why does *he* have to—?”
Next, a camping trip. Autumn. Tents, mountains.
“He’ll *freeze*! His immune system’s weak! And bears? Ticks? *Emily, talk to him!*”
“Honestly,” Emily groaned to Hannah, “I’m not a sister anymore, just a bloody switchboard. ‘Tell him this.’ ‘Tell her that.’ I’m stuck in the middle!”
“Maybe he *will* move out soon,” Hannah mused.
“I told him—*get married and go*. Far away. Have a break. From *her*.”
Then—silence.
No calls, no panics. Emily got worried. She rang Mum.
“How’re things?”
“Fine, love. Only… Arthur and Alina split. She’s moved on. He’s… struggling.”
“Ah.”
“He’s home again. Moping. Gaming. At least he’s not drinking. And he’s *here*. Selfish of me, but… I sleep better knowing he’s safe, Emily. Just like his father… I still love him. Cry every night.”
Three months later, Arthur called.
“Can I bring Natasha round? Want you to meet her.”
Emily laughed. “Sure.”
But inside, she thought: *Here we go again. Mum’s going to lose it. The calls, the tears, the ‘what-ifs.’ And how am I supposed to tell her about Simon and our hiking trip?*
She sat on the bed, whispered:
“Christ, this is *exhausting*.”
Then she punched her knee and cried. Because she loved them too much. Wanted them to *stop* being so afraid. To love without losing themselves.
And maybe that was the answer. Not talking to *him*, or to *her*. To *myself*. Giving myself permission to be happy.
