“You must respect my rights!” declared my son, unaware how easily a mother’s heart can be wounded.
On that damp October evening, Margaret, wrapped in her warm dressing gown, placed a plate of steaming pastries on the table. The room filled with the scent of freshly baked goods, while outside, the wind howled, carrying in the chill. Everyone hurried to the table, eager to warm themselves with tea and forget the autumn drizzle.
Her ten-year-old son, Thomas, sat silently, took one pastry, but barely ate—only picked at the filling with his fork, his expression dark. His eyes carried a weight, as though he had learnt something grave that day.
“What’s troubling you, Tommy?” Margaret asked, settling beside him. “You seem so pensive. Did something happen at school?”
The boy pushed his plate aside and replied, “A policeman came to speak to us today. He said children have rights. And that parents often break them.”
Margaret raised a brow in surprise. “Is that so? And what did he say?”
“Plenty,” Thomas began, with all the seriousness of a grown man. “For instance, you can’t make me do things I don’t want to do. You and Dad must respect my individuality. I even have my own private life, and I’ve every right to spend my time as I choose.”
“Private life?” Margaret repeated, barely suppressing a smile.
“Yes!” he nodded firmly. “Like, I want to play on the computer after school. But you make me do my homework. That’s a direct violation of my freedom! And when I refuse to eat sprouts, you shout at me! The policeman said that’s emotional pressure! And don’t even get me started on the belt—you know that’s criminal! They might even take me away if I complain.”
Margaret stayed silent. Leaning against the table, she listened without recognising the boy before her. She remembered him as a tiny thing, weeping in the night, clinging to her fiercely, how she had sat by his bed, counting his breaths. Now, here stood a “person with rights.”
“And what about your teacher?” she asked softly. “If she keeps you after lessons, will you call the police on her too?”
“Absolutely! That’s unlawful detention. I can report her. She has to respect my rights.”
“And if she’s arrested? Would you feel sorry?”
“I… suppose,” a flicker of doubt crept into his voice. “But she shouldn’t break the rules!”
Margaret sighed, turning toward the sink to wash the dishes. Meanwhile, Thomas snatched a sheet of paper and scribbled furiously. When finished, he rushed over and handed it to her.
In uneven but confident handwriting, it read:
*Payment for services: Tidying room — £5, walking the dog — £3, grocery errands — £2. Total: £10 per week. Outstanding from last week: £13.*
Margaret lowered her gaze to the note. Her chest tightened. A wall had risen between them. She sat, took another paper, and began to write. Her hand trembled. At one point, she even laughed, but tears welled moments later. When done, she folded the note neatly and passed it to her son.
He unfolded it and read:
*Services rendered: Sleepless nights — countless. Laundry, cleaning, meals — daily. Worry — immeasurable. Parents’ evenings, hospitals, scraped knees, tears, fears, joys, first steps, first words. Prayers when you were ill. A heart given freely. No charge. Because I love you.*
The boy fell silent. Then, without warning, he flung himself into her arms, clutching her tightly. “I’m sorry, Mum,” he whispered. “I just wanted to seem grown up. I didn’t think it would hurt you.”
Margaret held him close, kissed the top of his head, and murmured, “Just remember, love… rights matter. But love and respect matter more. And being a family means caring for each other—not for payment, but because the heart demands it.”
That evening, they sat together in quiet comfort, pressed close as the wind raged outside. The house was warm. Because at last—truly—they were together again.
