**Diary Entry**
*”Crazy”*
“Oliver, let me in. Let me in! I’m your mother! You have to give me money, or they won’t take me back!” The knocking at the door was relentless, her voice shrill. “You owe me this!”
Oliver leaned against the door, shutting his eyes. No, he wouldn’t open it. He’d spent his whole childhood branded as the “odd one out,” and he wasn’t going back to that. He walked to his bedroom, put on his headphones, and turned the music up loud.
His early years were hazy. He vaguely remembered a remote-control car for his fifth birthday, a cake, and nursery friends. His father had still been around then.
Then those people from that strange organisation moved in, and the celebrations ended.
His mother fell under their influence fast. His dad, unable to handle her fanaticism, left, divorced her, and agreed to send child support. But that money never went towards clothes or shoes for Oliver. The organisation had always seemed like an octopus to him—calm and peculiar on the surface, until its tentacles wrapped around you, never letting go.
His sixth birthday went uncelebrated. So did the next ten—the organisation didn’t believe in them. Instead, there were “special days” when they got something decent to eat. The rest of the time, he and his mother knocked on doors, preaching with other converts.
She sold their flat quickly—their lawyers helped. Oliver was left with nothing, registered in some distant village shack. The money? Straight to the community.
His school years were spent in a shared room with other women and their kids, dressed in foreign charity handouts, endlessly proselytising. Classmates mocked him. He fought back and got punished twice—first by the bullies, then by the organisation for torn clothes and “lazy preaching.”
They saw him as hopeless, dead weight. So at sixteen, he ran—a thousand miles from his hometown. College, early jobs, then university. Now he was a successful programmer with his own flat.
But the fear that haunted him for years had come true. His mother and her fanatics had found him again. A convenient target to bleed dry.
***
It started a week ago when his mother—barely recognisable—ambushed him outside work:
“Hello, sweetheart! I’ve been waiting three hours.”
“Why?”
“I’m your mum! I missed you. Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“No. I didn’t invite you. You’re not coming home. I’ll buy you food if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you, darling!” She beamed.
They sat on a park bench as he bought her a meal.
“What about your group?” Oliver asked. “Did you leave?”
“Not exactly. But I’m not… useful enough. I’ve got nowhere else.”
“How’d you get my address?”
“They gave it to me. Told me to go to my son. So here I am.”
Oliver exhaled. “Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere. But I’ll manage—a hallway will do.”
He sighed again. “Don’t sleep in a hallway. I’ll make up the sofa.”
For days, he let himself hope she’d changed. No preaching. Just soups, questions about his life—his studies, his job. Oliver, who usually only talked to colleagues, thawed, chatting eagerly about his struggles and joys.
Then, a week later, they showed up. And the money vanished.
He came home to an empty flat. His desk drawer, where he kept his savings and a big project bonus, was open. The cash was gone—along with his mother.
She returned soon after, flanked by two followers, grinning as she let herself in.
“Sweetheart, you should be proud! Your tainted money went to a righteous cause. Now you can come back—be saved, like me!”
“What? That was most of my savings. Give it back, or I’ll report it stolen.”
“Can a mother steal from her son?” she scoffed. “Who’d believe you? Want to be a laughingstock?”
Her smile hardened into something cruel.
Oliver stood. “Get out. And don’t come back—you or your lackeys.” His voice shook. “I was stupid to believe you missed me. That I could have a normal family.”
He’d paid for that dream again. At least it was only money this time.
“You’re nothing to us. A traitor. You should be begging for forgiveness!” she shrieked, her eyes full of hate.
He shoved them out, double-locked the door (she only had one key), and listened to her wails fade down the stairs.
***
The next morning, Oliver left for his usual run. His mother sat outside with two men.
“There he is! My own blood, abandoning his poor mum!” she wailed. “Did you sleep well while I froze on the streets?”
He ignored her, but they followed. He turned. “What do you want?”
“Sweetheart, you know we take donations. You grew up with us—you know the good we do. Pay willingly,” her voice turned shrill, “or we’ll ruin your life and reputation. No peace at home or work.”
“Why should I pay you—or them? Because of you, I went years without a home, decent food, or clothes!”
“You never truly believed,” she said firmly. “Repent before it’s too late.”
“Leave, or I’m calling the police. Your lot’s banned now.”
They slunk off. Oliver realised he was drenched in sweat. Eight years later, and the sight of them still terrified him.
***
The next day, his boss called him in.
“Look, this isn’t my business, but do you know our phones have been ringing nonstop about you? Is it true you kicked your mum out?”
“It’s true she sold our home for that cult and left me with nothing.”
“Oliver, a major client called. He won’t work with you. Take a leave or find another job. We’ll give you a reference, but we can’t have this drama.”
He quit that day. Arguing was pointless. The cult’s reach was something he’d known since childhood. They’d waited until he was successful to exploit him.
Walking home, his phone rang.
“Enjoy the preview of your new life? We’ve barely started. Pay up, or we’ll destroy you.”
“Piss off,” Oliver snapped. “I’m not afraid.”
“Really? You’re already jobless. And your ‘kind’ neighbour? Just the beginning.”
He hung up, exhausted. He didn’t want to run again.
But the next morning, flyers plastered the neighbourhood—fake accusations, his face alongside vile claims. A passing neighbour muttered, “And he seemed so decent.”
This was their next move. What next? Harassment until they broke him? If anything happened to him, his mother would inherit his flat.
He felt small again.
Another call came.
“Like the flyers? Your reputation’s crumbling. Pay, and we’ll fix everything—your job, your life.”
“I want nothing from you.”
“Your choice.”
He booked a one-way ticket to Edinburgh. The flat could be sold later. Right now, he just needed to escape.
Maybe they’d find another victim. He’d paid his price for freedom already.
**Lesson:** Some debts aren’t worth paying. And some people never change—no matter how much you wish they would.
