**Diary Entry**
My 35-year-old son still lives under my roof. Friends tell me to kick him out, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
My name is Margaret Whitmore, and I live in a quiet little market town just outside Oxford, tucked away along the River Thames. This morning, I woke before the alarm again, tiptoeing around the house while my son, William, slept. He’s 35 and has lived with me for what feels like an eternity. The kitchen sink is piled high with dishes, and the living room is cluttered with his things—reminders that he’s stuck here, frozen in time, like a film left playing on pause. I want to tell him, *”It’s time to stand on your own two feet,”* but the words catch in my throat, and my chest tightens.
When William was young, I raised him alone. His father walked out, leaving me to juggle the roles of mother, father, and breadwinner. I fretted over every scraped knee in the playground, every bad mark in school. I did everything to make sure he felt safe in this house. Years passed, and that safety became his cage. His body grew, but his heart stayed a child’s, sheltered under my wing. Without realising it, I’d turned him into a perpetual boy, waiting for Mum to sort everything.
Once, a friend asked me to help move some old furniture. I called out, *”William, give me a hand?”* He just shrugged. *”Mum, I’m busy—maybe later?”* Then he hunched back over his computer, lost in some endless game. That moment summed up our lives: I’d do anything for him, while he clings to the illusion that Mum will always bail him out. Friends insist, *”Margaret, it’s your house, your rules! Boot him out—it’s the only way he’ll learn.”* Their words sting with truth, but the thought of shutting the door on him turns me ice-cold inside. He’s still the boy who ran to me with scraped knees, who cried when the bullies taunted him, who waited up for me to come home from work.
Lately, I’ve become a nag. Every morning, I mutter, *”Trash still not taken out, clothes strewn everywhere.”* Motherly love wars with exhaustion—I’m tired of carrying it all alone. William drifts between odd jobs, never sticking to anything. When he does scrape together a few quid, it’s spent on nights out or gadgets. I’m ashamed to count pennies, ashamed I can’t help him buy a flat, but worse—he doesn’t even try to ease my burden.
A few days ago, I finally spoke up. *”William, we need to talk,”* I said, voice trembling. *”You can’t stay like this. What happens when I’m gone?”* He scowled, slammed his bedroom door, and that was that. No conversation, just silence. Guilt gnaws at me—like I’m betraying the love I’ve built since his first steps. But my friends might be right. Maybe it’s time to let go, even if it breaks my heart. Other women my age have grandchildren; their sons have careers, families. Meanwhile, I’m still making his Sunday roasts, ironing his shirts, listening to empty promises that *”next month”* he’ll sort himself out. That *”next month”* has stretched into years. Nothing will change unless I force it.
Maybe it’s not about kicking him out, but finding the words to wake him up. How do I say it without crushing him? He’s sensitive—a tangle of fear and resentment—and maybe my coddling is what’s chained him here. But I’m only human. I’m tired. I want peace, want a life without this weight. Today, washing dishes, I remembered little William helping me unpack groceries. He was five, clumsy but earnest. Back then, we were a team. Now, he’s an anchor dragging me down, and I don’t know how to cut the rope.
Time won’t wait. I tell myself one day he’ll step into the world without my safety net, learn to stand on his own. But first, I must do the thing I dread most. How do I find the courage? I don’t know. But this isn’t cruelty—it’s duty. A chance for him to grow up, even if it costs us both tears. When I finally say it, he might storm out, call me a traitor. Or years later, he might thank me. But I can’t carry this load forever. The thought terrifies me, yet there’s relief in it too, pounding in my chest like a hammer. A mother’s love isn’t just giving shelter—it’s knowing when to say, *”Go, and make your own way.”* And I must. For him. For me.