My son announced he’s getting married and living with us. And here I am, still forced to share a sofa with my youngest…
My name is Evelyn Whitmore. I’m standing on the edge—not from exhaustion, though I’ve long grown used to sleepless nights and swallowed tears. Not from loneliness, either—my husband passed six years ago, and since then, no man’s voice has echoed in this house except my sons’. But now, I’m terrified. Terrified that the little I’ve built with my last strength is crumbling.
My eldest, Oliver, is a uni student. Just nineteen, barely started his first year. My youngest, Alfie, is only in Year Two. The three of us squeeze into a tiny two-bed flat—if you can call this living. More like surviving. I carry it all: school runs, bills, work, endless chores. Days blur into nights—office shifts by day, odd jobs by evening, weekends swallowed by laundry and scrubbing. My parents chip in when they can, pensioners scraping by themselves. Every penny’s a battle. Every new pair of shoes feels like a war.
Oliver’s become a stranger. Locked in his room—literally, with a new bolt. Only emerges to eat. Never lifts a finger to wash a dish or tidy up. Snaps when I ask, or worse, stares right through me.
But none of it stung as much as the day he walked in and said, dead serious:
“Mum, I’m getting married. We’ll live here.”
At first, I laughed—thought it a joke. Then I saw his face. No jest. Just cold certainty.
“Have you lost your mind?” My voice cracked. “You’ve not a pound to your name! Where d’you think you’ll sleep? Where will Emily sleep? Where will *we*?”
He stood like stone. Unmoved.
“I’ve got my room. It’s enough.”
“I won’t allow it!”
“You don’t get a say. I’m an adult. I’ll marry who I want.”
That night, I wept harder than at my husband’s funeral. This pain was betrayal. I’d given him everything, and he never once asked: *Mum, how are you holding up?*
Days later, the lock clicked into place. Then he brought Emily home—the girl he’d decided to build a life with. Pretty, yes, but just as lost as him. Just as reckless.
“I won’t feed you, Oliver!” I screamed, desperate. “I can’t! Alfie and I already share a bloody sofa!”
“Don’t bother,” he said flatly. “Grandad’ll help. Her parents will chip in.”
I snapped. Rang Emily’s parents. Guess what? They knew nothing. No wedding, no plans. They stormed over, dragged her out while she shrieked I’d ruined her life. Three days later, she was back. With a suitcase. And she stayed.
Now they live here. Eat separately—I don’t ask how. Grandad’s money? Whatever. I’m too tired to fight.
Alfie and I still share that sofa. Oliver and his “wife” hide behind a locked door. Nights, I sit in the kitchen wondering: *Have I lost him? Where’s the boy who picked daisies and shouted, ‘Mummy, I love you’?*
Sometimes, I hear them laughing in there. And I want to sob. Because it’s not joy. It’s a mockery of me.
What do I do? Throw them out? He’s still my son. Mine. Yet somehow—not mine at all.
I don’t know how much longer I can take this. But every night, I whisper the same plea before sleep: *”Please, God—let this just be a bad dream…”*