**The Dream of a Mother’s Grasp**
“Don’t interfere with my family,” the son said, then deleted my number.
“Mum, how many times?! I’m a grown man!” Tom fidgeted with his hoodie strings, standing in the hallway with a bag slung over his shoulder.
“Where are you going in this weather? Its pouring outside!” Margaret glanced out the window, where fat raindrops slid down the glass. “And Im making dinneryour favourite shepherds pie. Cant it wait?”
“Mum, Im thirty years old. Thirty! And you still track my every move like Im fifteen.”
Margaret sighed, clutching a tea towel to her chest. He was right, of course. But letting go was agonyher only child, born late, after years of hoping. Especially after David left, vanishing into the fog of another life.
“I just worry. Youve been… different since the divorce with Emily. Closed off. Maybe we could talk?”
“About what?” Tom zipped his jacket. “Im fine. Just heading to Jakes to watch the match. You remember Jakeweve been mates since primary school.”
“I remember Jake. Good lad. Remember when you two built that den in the garden from old planks?” Margaret smiled faintly. “Id bring you lemonade and jam sandwiches…”
“Mum, Im already late.”
Tom reached for the door, but his mother grabbed his sleeve.
“Wait! What if Sophies there? Jakes got a girlfriend nowthey might invite friends. You wouldnt mind meeting someone nice, would you?”
“Christ…” Tom groaned, shaking his head. “Mum, enough! Ill sort my own love life.”
“I only want you happy! A proper family, children…”
She trailed off as his face darkened. Children were still a raw wound. The plans he and Emily had buried.
Tom wrenched the door open and left, slamming it behind him. Margaret stood frozen in the hallway, the tea towel crumpled in her hands.
In the kitchen, she turned off the oven. No appetite. Shed reheat it later, if he came home. If.
The house hummed with silence. Years ago, it had been aliveDavid reading the paper, Tom doing homework at this very table, her bustling at the stove. Now, just the drumming rain.
The phone rang. Margaret snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Margie, its me, Sharon. How are you, love? Not brooding?”
Sharonher oldest friend, since their days at college.
“Just another row with Tom. I dont know how to talk to him anymore. Everythings wrong.”
“What about this time?”
“The usual. Asked where he was going, and he bit my head off. Like Im some villain.”
“Margie, ever think maybe hes struggling? A thirty-year-old man living with his mum…”
“Where else would he go? Rentings impossible on his salary, and buyingyou know how it is.”
“I do. But maybe he doesnt try because its easy with you? You still cook, clean, fuss like hes ten.”
Margaret opened her mouth to arguethen closed it. Sharon was right.
“But Im his mother! How can I not care?”
“Caring and smothering arent the same. My Ben moved to Manchester at twenty-five. I miss him, butyou have to let go.”
After hanging up, Margaret sat for hours, thoughts churning. Was she really that suffocating?
Tom returned near midnight, slipping straight to his room without a word. She heard drawers open, things shuffling.
Breakfast was silent. Tom scrolled through his phone, ignoring the omelette shed made.
“Tom, remember when your dad took you to the zoo? You adored the elephants,” she ventured.
“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes still glued to the screen.
“And your first day of schoolso serious with that little backpack…”
“Mum, why dredge this up?”
“Time flies. One day youre small, the next… a man.”
Tom looked up, exhaustion in his eyes. “If you see Im grown, why treat me like a child?”
“I dont”
“You rang Jake yesterday to check if I was really there. Think I didnt know?”
Margaret flushed. She had called. Just to be sure.
“I worried”
“Mum, Im thirty! I was married. We tried for kids. Im not a teenager!”
“But”
“But what? Because I live here, you own my every step?”
Tears pricked her throat. She only ever wanted to keep him safe.
“I want whats best”
“I know. But your best is choking me. I cant breathe.”
Tom stood, jacket in hand. “Dont wait up. Staying at Jakes.”
“Dinner? I thought Id make your favourite”
“Skip it.” He was gone.
“Tom, wait!” She chased him to the door. “Must we fight? Ill tryless nagging”
“Mum, its not that. I need space. My own life.”
“But Im alone!” The words burst out. “Dad left, now youwhat do I do?”
“Dunno. But I cant be your whole world. Its not right.”
The door slammed. Margaret stared at his half-eaten omelette, clearing it mechanically.
Three days passed. No word. On the fourth, she called.
“The number youve dialed is unavailable,” droned the automated voice.
Strange. Tom never turned his phone off. Battery? Or?
She dug out Jakes number.
“Jake, its Margaret. Is Tom there?”
“Uh, no, Mrs. W. He moved out three days ago. Got a flat.”
“A flat? Without telling me?”
“Dunno. Guess he wanted to say it himself…”
Her hands shook. A flat. No warning. What if he fell ill? Whod look after him?
She redialed Toms number. Now: “This number is no longer in service.”
Her heart lurched. Changed his number? Didnt tell her?
She fled to Sharons.
“Hes gone! Changed his number! Like Im some enemy!”
“Margie, breathe. Sit. Tea.”
“Tea?! Hell flounder without me! Wholl cook? Wholl?”
“Hes thirty. Not a babe.”
“But”
“No buts. You pushed him here. Smothered him.”
“I wanted the best!”
“Wanted. But look what happened.” Sharon pushed the sugar bowl closer. “Loves not chains, Margie. My Ben calls because he wants to. Not out of guilt.”
“And whats left for me? Fifty-five, alone”
“Alive, isnt it? Look at Brenda from book clubsixty, does pottery, travels. Lives!”
Sharon was right. But admitting it felt like drowning. Had her love really poisoned him?
A week blurred by. Work. Meals no one ate. TV noise without meaning.
Then, a knock. Margaret lunged for the doorhoping for Tom.
A stranger stood therea woman, mid-twenties, blonde, warm-eyed.
“Hello. Margaret? Im Olivia. Tom and I… were together. May I come in?”
Margaret stepped aside. Her pulse thundered.
“Tea?” she offered robotically.
“Thanks.”
They sat across the kitchen table. Margaret studied her. Pretty. Polished. But why had Tom hidden her?
“Margaret, I came to talk. Tom hasnt told you”
“No. Hes not speaking to me.”
“I know why. We… were getting married.”
Margarets chest tightened.
“Married… He never”
“Hes afraid of your reaction. He told me about Emily. How you… hovered.”
“I dont hover! I care!”
“I see that. But your care… suffocates him.”
“How would you know? Youre not his mother!”
“No. But I love him. And I see how torn he isbetween being your son and living his life.”
Margarets nails dug into her palms. This girl, this stranger, lecturing her on love?
“What do you want?”
“Let him go. Truly. No calls. No drop-ins. No unsought advice.”
“And what do I get?”
“A son who visits because he wants to. A daughter-in-law who doesnt see you as a rival. Maybe grandchildren.”
“Grandchildren…” The word was a lifeline.
“Yes. But only if you let us live.”
Olivia stood, adjusting her bag.
“Think about it. Tom loves you. But hes not your little boy anymore.”
After she left, Margaret sat for hoursangry, wounded, then hollow.
Somewhere between scrubbing the floor and sobbing over photo albums, something cracked.
*If I love him, I must let go.*
Next day, she dialed the number Olivia left.
“Hello?” Toms voice, wary.
“Tom… its me. I wont interfere. Just knowthe doors open. I love you. And… if Olivias willing, Id like to meet her. Properly.”
Silence. Then, softly:
“Thanks, Mum. That… means a lot.”
And in that breath, Margaret understood: she wasnt losing him. She was setting him free. Maybe, for the first time in years, herself too.
