Eleanor, how could you be so shameless? That’s the only flat I have! Where would I go? – Mrs. Eleanor Whitman flapped her arms in despair before collapsing into a chair. – Where can an old woman rest her head in these days?
“Mam, what are you talking about? What’s this got to do with your flat? I just wanted to introduce you to Clara,” Charles stammered, bewildered as their easy conversation had morphed into something else entirely.
“It **does** have to do with it, you see! Do you think I haven’t noticed why young couples bring their lovers home? To ask for our blessing, and then—*poof*—off they go! And me, what, cast aside?” Eleanor brandished a handkerchief from her cardigan pocket, dabbing her dry eyes.
“Mam, don’t be ridiculous. Clara and I are just dating.”
“Believe me, love, they all start the same,” she said with a venomous smile. “Once I was young, too.”
Charles slumped onto a stool across from her, heart sinking. Clara *had* been the plan for the evening, but now the idea felt doomed. For months, Eleanor had grown possessive, her every mention of a date met with thinly veiled panic. At fifty-six, she still held a sharp elegance, yet since retiring, her life had narrowed to him. He was thirty now, but to her, still a child needing tending.
“Clara,” he murmured into his phone, stepping onto the stairwell. “Can we reschedule? Yeah, sorry. Mam’s not feeling well.”
When Charles returned, Eleanor was humming in the kitchen—a melody he remembered from childhood, “Follow the Fleet.” It played when she was satisfied. She had the table set with her favorite stew, chunky and rich, just as he’d begged her to revive since his teens.
“Listened to you, did I? Cancelled your little tryst. I made duck casserole, your favorite,” she said, plating it with extra gravy. “Eat up, son. You’re practically a skeleton early.”
Charles stirred the food absently, the familiar ache of being reduced to a boy in her gaze growing heavier.
“Mam,” he started, barely tasting the stew, “I’m thirty. I think I’m past needing my mother to pick my dates.”
“Exactly! Thirty and still no ring on your finger, no kids to fill the flat. All because you chase skirts on a whim,” she snapped. “Where’s the sense in that?”
“I *do* have a girlfriend! Clara’s a software developer. Works at that startup in Shoreditch.”
“Software developer? You think she’ll regret it when she’s stuck doing the laundry?” Eleanor scoffed. “Try Margaret from the social club. Her daughter’s a primary schoolteacher. Adores baking, you’d like that.”
Charles groaned. Margaret’s daughter had once sent him three unsolicited poetry collections after one awkward encounter. He’d switched numbers.
“Mam, leave it. I’ll figure my life out,” he said wearily.
Her eyes welled instantly. “Of course I’ll leave it! Who am I now, just a nuisance? You raised me, fed me, put me on my feet… and this is how you repay me?”
Old tricks. He knew them all. The guilt. The manipulation.
“I didn’t mean that, Mam. I just—” He stopped, realizing it was already too late.
“As for Clara,” Eleanor continued, her voice shaking, “she’s just biding her time. That pretty face must be dreaming of your flat, don’t you think? You, an executive in a company that pays enough to live well? She’s got her little white dress picked out, I swear.”
Clara was nothing like that. She earned twice as much he did and could have moved out years ago. But arguing with Eleanor was like talking to a brick wall now.
That night, Charles lay in his bed, the walls of their old two-bedroom flat feeling like a cage. He remembered his father’s last words before leaving: *“Don’t let her swallow you whole, son.”* At fifteen, he’d dismissed the warning. Now, it echoed through his skull like a death knell.
The next morning, he awoke to the scent of fresh scones and tea. Guilt prickled again. She *had* tried, hadn’t she? Maybe he was unfair.
“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Eleanor beamed, placing the scones before him. “Told them at work you were taking a sick day. Let’s watch some telly—just the two of us.”
“I have to go in,” he said, pushing the plate aside. “Important meeting.”
“Nonsense. Give me a hand sorting the attic. It’s stiff with dust, and I’m not getting any younger.”
“No, Mam. Tonight. Please.”
Eleanor stood stiffly, her face flickering with disappointment before she turned back to the kitchen.
He stepped into the shower, fuming. Why did he let her control him so? Why did she treat Clara like a snake in the garden?
When he emerged, Eleanor was in the hall, eyes red.
“Woke up with a terrible chest pain last night. Thought I wouldn’t see morning,” she whispered, staring at the floor. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
He shut his eyes, counting to ten. Work would wait. But this—*this* was a game he would never win.
“Still hurting?” he asked gently.
“Better now,” she murmured. “But you know… I don’t mean to burden you. Just… you’re all I have.”
He called his boss, jaw tight. Propped herself up. Away from the doctor. Toward him.
By evening, she was curled on the sofa, rewatching *EastEnders* with a chipper air. He was halfway through his toast when the doorbell rang.
“Expecting someone?” Eleanor asked, all innocence.
“Clara?” Charles said, mouth suddenly dry.
She stood in the hallway, a small tart in hand. “Tought you could use a visit from a sick man’s girl,” she smiled. “Can I?”
He paused, glancing at Eleanor’s frozen form.
“She’s here to see Charles,” he said, stepping aside.
“Wait—” Eleanor started, but Charles shoved a silent *don’t* with his eyes.
“Lovely to meet you, I’m Clara,” the girl said, holding out a hand. “Charles didn’t exaggerate. You seem absolutely wonderful.”
“Charmed,” Eleanor said coldly, arms crossed. “But Charles needs rest, not visitors.”
“Mam!” he snapped. “I’m fine.”
“The duck casserole nearly killed him,” she insisted. “Without my care, he’d still be in bed with a fever.”
Clara’s smile faltered. “Oh… I didn’t know. Should I—”
“No!” Charles said too quickly. “Stay.”
The evening was a minefield. Eleanor peppered Clara with questions—where she lived, if she’d ever considered a nursery career, if she fancied a slightly more *traditional* role. While Clara faltered, Eleanor delivered monologues on “proper” women.
“Back in my day,” she said at one point, as Clara mentioned asking *him* out first, “a girl would never have taken initiative.”
“Times change, Mam,” Charles cut in, as Clara’s cheeks flushed.
“True,” Eleanor said, sipping her tea. “But human nature doesn’t. Girls chase security, boys… well, you know the rest.” Her eyes, sharp as ever, locked onto him.
“Clara, maybe we could—” Charles said, but Eleanor was already lecturing about “needing to stay until the tea was cooled.”
By midnight, Clara was gone, and Charles sat in the kitchen, the air thick with Eleanor’s smolder.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
“Satisfied?” she hissed. “You let that *petite* upstart throw you from your mummy’s side! Typical!”
“I didn’t let her,” he said, standing. “I chose her.”
Her face crumpled. “You chose *her* over *me*.”
“No. I chose *us* over you hoarding me like a present you don’t want to wrap.”
He stormed toward the door. “I’m going to Clara’s. Call me when you’re ready to talk like an adult.”
The lock clicked behind him. Rain peppered the sidewalk. Clara’s text came through: *“You okay?”*
He smiled, dialing her. “Yeah,” he said, voice steadier. “Can I come over?”
The next visit was for boxes. Eleanor stood at the door, calm, a casserole dish in hand.
“Come in,” she said. The flat gleamed; sunlight filtered through clean curtains, fresh flowers in a vase. It was *her*—not the woman he’d known.
She served the stew in silence. “The new neighbor’s son left for Australia last week. Her husband’s been gone longer. She says he calls once a year, if at all.”
Charles listened, untouched by the food.
“I don’t want that, son. I want to know my grandson. I want tea on a Sunday like we used to. I’m not afraid of being lonely—I’ve been lonely *long enough*.”
He took her hand, the same one she’d held slick with baby wipes. “I want to live, Mam. Not just for you.”
“Then stay,” she said. “I’m going to visit my sister in Kent for a month. Fresh air, fresh thoughts. When I return…” Her smile was softer. “Bring Clara. Introduce her to the family properly. Maybe some *real* bonding.”
The next morning, they packed Eleanor’s things. She hummed again, this time a bittersweet tune. “Oh, and if you need a matchmaker, my neighbor’s nephew in Cornwall has a brother—”
“Eleanor,” Charles groaned, but her laughter rang clear, and for the first time in years, it felt honest.