Elizabeth jolted awake to the sound of crashing. Again. Something had been thrown, shattered. The clock read half past six on a Sunday morning—her only chance to sleep past eight.
“Mother!” shouted James from the kitchen. “Where’s my mug? You moved everything again!”
Fifty-two years old. She dragged herself out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown. The mirror reflected a tired woman who couldn’t remember the last time she had slept properly. Grey roots peeking through, dark circles under her eyes. When had she aged so much?
“Coming,” she muttered, shuffling toward the kitchen.
James stood amid the wreckage. A shattered plate lay on the floor—likely the casualty of his search for his precious mug. Twenty-five years old, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, yet throwing a tantrum like a toddler.
“Here’s your mug,” Elizabeth said, pulling a blue cup marked *World’s Greatest Son* from the drying rack.
She’d bought it years ago, back when she still believed he’d turn his life around—find a job, act like a decent human being. Now the words felt like a cruel joke.
“Why’d you put it there? I told you—it stays on the counter!”
“James, I washed up before bed—”
“Not *Jimmy*! James! How many times do I have to say it?”
He snatched the mug, sloshing in yesterday’s cold tea. Elizabeth stared at the broken plate. Another mess to clean. Another replacement to buy. Another morning of enduring.
“Mum, what happened?” Emily appeared in the doorway—small, fragile, in an old pyjama set. Nineteen but looking sixteen. A teaching student, dreaming of working with kids. If she made it through uni. If she survived this house.
“Nothing, love. Just a broken plate.”
“Broke all by itself, did it?” James scoffed.
Emily wordlessly fetched the dustpan. A practiced motion, like shattered crockery was part of the morning routine.
“Leave it!” James barked. “I didn’t ask you to clean!”
“Then who will?” Emily murmured.
“None of your business!”
Elizabeth sank into a chair, resting her head in her hands. *God, how much longer?* How much more of the shouting, the chaos, this… war in her own home?
Ten years ago, John had died—her husband, their father. A heart attack. Or maybe he’d just had enough of this madness. Back then, James had been in college. Dropped out six months later. “Hated it.” Then a supermarket job—lasted two weeks. Quit—”boss was an idiot.” Construction? “Coworkers were morons.” Car wash? “Manager was a prick.” Year after year. First, she’d hoped he’d find his way. Then begged him to try. Then just… stopped.
And he’d only grown angrier—at the world, at life, at her and Emily. But most of all, at *her*. It was her fault he was a failure. Her fault he’d turned out wrong. Her job to feed, clothe, house him.
“Mum, what’s for breakfast?” James flopped into a chair.
“Eggs, porridge—”
“Porridge *again*? I’m sick of this slop! Buy proper cereal!”
“We *did*, James. You finished it in two days.”
“Then get more!”
“With what? I don’t get paid till Friday.”
“Not my problem!”
She opened the fridge. Half a block of cheese, three eggs, a loaf of bread. A week until payday. Emily handed out flyers on weekends—£20 a day. Barely covered her bus fare and lunches.
“I can do scrambled eggs,” Elizabeth offered.
“With bacon!”
“No bacon.”
“Then forget it!” He kicked his chair over.
“James, stop,” Emily whispered.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” He wheeled on her. “Think you’re better than me? With your useless degree?”
“I didn’t say—”
“You *look* it! Staring at me like I’m—”
“Enough!” Elizabeth stepped between them.
“You shut up too!” James roared. “I’m sick of this! Living in this dump like a prisoner!”
“No one’s forcing you to stay,” slipped out before she could stop it.
James went eerily still. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You *said* no one’s keeping me here. Hinting I should move out?”
“James—”
“Answer me! Is that what you want?”
She was silent. But *God*, yes. To wake in peace. To not flinch at every sound. To walk freely in her own home.
“Fine. Know this—I’m *not* leaving! This flat’s mine too! I’m on the tenancy!”
“It’s in *my* name,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“So what? I’m your son! I’ve got rights!”
“You’ve got responsibilities. You’re twenty-five.”
“Oh, here we go!” He slammed his fist on the table. “I’m a bad son! A layabout! I—”
“You *scream* at me every day!” Her breath heaved. “You do *nothing*! You leech off me and blame *me* for it!”
“Shut your mouth!”
“No! I’m *tired*! Fifty-two years old, working my fingers to the bone to feed two grown adults!”
“One’s at uni *and* helps,” Emily said softly. “The other—”
“Shut it!” James lunged.
“Don’t you *dare*!” Elizabeth shoved him back.
“Or what? Call the cops? Go ahead!”
She *had* called them. Three times last year. Two officers listening, nodding. James turning angelic—apologising, promising to change. They’d leave. Two days later, hell again.
“You know what?” James sneered. “I’m going back to bed.”
The door slammed. Just Elizabeth and Emily amid the debris—broken plate, overturned chair, shattered peace.
“Mum,” Emily whispered. “Maybe… stay with Aunt Margaret for a bit? She offered—”
“No. I won’t leave you with him.”
“But there’s got to be… *something*.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But this isn’t living. Look at you. You’re a ghost.”
Elizabeth caught her reflection in the microwave. Emily was right.
On Monday, she went to Citizens Advice. Not sure why—just needed to say it aloud.
A woman named Helen listened. “Your son’s twenty-five?”
“Yes.”
“On the tenancy?”
“Yes, but I’m the leaseholder.”
Helen scribbled notes. “You can apply for an exclusion order. If he’s making life unbearable, causing distress—”
“Evict my own son?”
“An *adult* son. If he’s violent, abusive. Police reports help. Witness statements, your GP’s records…”
Elizabeth thought of Emily—flinching at raised voices, shrinking into herself.
“What if he refuses to leave?”
“A court order enforces it. Bailiffs if needed.”
“And where would he go?”
“Not your concern. He’s grown.”
That night, James raged over dinner—angry she’d made pasta, not pizza.
“I *hate* this rubbish!”
“The Tesco Express was out of pizza bases—”
“Then go to Sainsbury’s!”
“It’s *nine o’clock*!”
He hurled his plate. Sauce splattered the wall.
“Clean it up!”
“You clean it,” Elizabeth said, shockingly calm.
“*What*?”
“You made the mess.”
He loomed over her. “Say that again.”
“Hit me. Go on. Make it easier for the court.”
He swung—Emily grabbed his arm. He shoved her. She hit the wall.
“That’s *it*!” Elizabeth hauled Emily up. “This ends *now*! You *do not* put hands on your sister!”
“Or what?”
“Pack your things. You’re leaving.”
He laughed. “You’ll never—”
“I’ve already filed the papers.”
Silence.
Three weeks later, the court ruled. James had a month to leave.
He read the order, face purpling. “You *sued* me?”
“Yes.”
“My own *mother*?”
“Yes.”
“You *bitch*.”
“Thirty days, James.”
“I’m not going!”
“You will.”
He stared like she was a stranger. “Where am I supposed to live?”
“Not my problem.”
“After *everything*?”
“*Everything*?” She laughed bitterly. “What have *you* done besides take?”
He left in two days. No goodbye.
That evening, Elizabeth and Emily sat at the kitchen table. Rain pattered outside.
“Mum… do you regret it?” Emily asked.
Elizabeth sipped her tea. “I regret not doing it sooner.”They sat in the quiet, the absence of his anger feeling like the first deep breath after years underwater.
