**Diary Entry**
*Speak to him, Emily… Or to her? Or maybe just to myself.*
“Mum, please, he’s fine,” I said, but her voice on the other end trembled with tears.
“Emily, you don’t understand! He could get himself killed out there!”
“How do you even know that?” I sighed, pressing my lips together to keep from snapping.
“He’s still just a boy!” Mum’s voice cracked.
“He’s twenty-five next month. Hardly a boy.” I bit back the rest and exhaled quietly. “Alright. I’ll call him.”
I ended the call and clenched my jaw.
*Oliver, Oliver… It’s always about him. And me? I’m just background noise, an extra in someone else’s drama. Emily’s strong, Emily’s independent, Emily doesn’t cry—so she must not feel anything. No one ever asks how I am.*
“It started after Dad died,” I told my friend Sophie, stirring my tea absentmindedly.
“Grief changes people,” she nodded. “But it’s been two years now.”
“That’s just it. She’s latched onto Oliver like he’s the last lifeboat. Her whole world revolves around him. As if she erased herself.”
“And you?”
“Me?” I scoffed. “I’m here, but I don’t count. She and Oliver have this… bond. Fine, I’d let it go if it weren’t so suffocating. He’s only two years younger than me, but she treats him like a child—feeding him, worrying over every thought in his head.”
“Maybe he reminds her of your father?”
“Oh, they all did—Oliver, Dad’s old school photos. Me? Must’ve got different genes.”
I’m twenty-seven. Work at a law firm in London, rent a tiny flat near King’s Cross. My love life? Stable. After a few rough patches, I’ve stopped chasing romance and focused on myself.
Oliver’s always been different. Lethargic, distracted, allergic to effort. Barely scraped through school, chose a degree where maths wasn’t involved. Dad had to sit him down for a man-to-man talk before he even pretended to care.
Then Dad died. Suddenly, brutally. Mum shattered. Doctors, pills, prayers—her work nearly collapsed. And through it all, Oliver became her comfort.
Her boy of solace. Even though he hasn’t been a boy for years.
He got a job but barely contributed, always home for dinner before disappearing into his computer. Until Alina came along.
At Christmas, I saw it. Oliver glued to his phone, grinning like an idiot. I knew—he was in love. I was happy for him.
Mum wasn’t.
“You should’ve seen him,” she fretted when we were alone in the kitchen. “Used to sleep till noon, now he’s working like a dog. Weekends, evenings, all for Alina. Saving for a ring, taking her out. He’s even budgeting!”
“Isn’t that what you wanted? For him to grow up?”
“Not like this! They’re reckless—hiking, kayaking, who knows what else? What if something happens? I’ll be alone—”
“Mum, you can’t wrap him in cotton wool forever.”
Weeks later, my phone lit up at lunch—*Mum* again. I braced myself.
“He didn’t come home last night, Emily! He stayed at her place. Warned me, but I thought—”
“He’s twenty-five. It’s normal.”
“Not to me! I didn’t sleep. Talk to him. Please. He listens to you.”
I exhaled. Agreed, of course. But wondered—should I? Maybe he doesn’t need a sister’s advice. Maybe he just needs to figure it out himself.
Then came the new obsessions. Horse riding. Camping. Every imaginary disaster.
“He’ll break his neck!” Mum wailed. “Or freeze to death! Bears, ticks—Emily, tell him!”
“I’m not his sister anymore,” I complained to Sophie. “I’m a bloody messenger. Mum says tell him, he says tell her. I’m stuck in the middle!”
“Maybe he *should* move out,” Sophie mused.
“I told him—marry her and go. Far away. For his sake.”
Then… silence.
No calls. No panicked demands. I actually worried. So I rang her.
“How are you, Mum?”
“Fine, love. Only… Oliver and Alina broke up. She’s moved on. He’s… struggling.”
“I see.”
“He’s home again. Quiet. Glued to his computer. At least he’s not drinking. And he’s *here*.” Her voice softened. “I know it’s selfish, but I sleep better knowing he’s safe. He’s so like his father… I still love him, you know. I still cry every night.”
Three months later, Oliver called.
“Can I bring Natasha round? Want you to meet her.”
I laughed. “Sure.”
But inside, I thought—*here we go again. Mum’s going to spiral. Cry. Call me. Worry. And I’ll have to introduce my own bloody boyfriend eventually.*
At the end of the month, James and I are hiking in the Lake District. The thought of Mum finding out makes me cringe.
*Will she panic if I fall off a horse? Freeze in a tent? What if I have children someday, and she smothers them too?*
I sat on the bed, whispering,
“God, it’s all so exhausting.”
Then I punched my knee and cried. Because I love them too much. And because I just wish they’d stop being so afraid. To love without losing themselves.
Maybe that’s the answer. Not talking to him. Not to her. To myself. Giving myself permission to be happy.
