June 15th
“Talk to him, Lizzie… Or her? Or maybe just to myself.”
“Lizzie, please… He’ll get himself killed out there!” Mum’s voice trembled with tears.
“Mum, what makes you say that?”
“You know why! He’s still just a boy to me!” Yvonne nearly sobbed.
“He’s twenty-five. Next month. A boy…” Lizzie bit back a sharper retort, exhaling quietly instead. “Fine. I’ll call him.”
She ended the call and pressed her lips together.
*Arthur, always Arthur… That’s all anyone talks about. And me? I’m just background noise, an extra in someone else’s drama. Lizzie’s grown, Lizzie’s independent, Lizzie doesn’t cry—so she must not hurt. Does Mum ever ask how I am? What’s happening in my life?*
“It started after Dad died,” Lizzie told her friend Emily, stirring her tea absently.
“Grief, stress, pain,” Emily nodded. “But it’s been two years…”
“Exactly! And yet she’s latched onto Arthur like he’s her last lifeline. Her whole world revolves around him now. It’s like she’s reset.”
“And you?”
“Me?” Lizzie scoffed. “I’m there, but I don’t count. She’s got this… special bond with him. Fine, if it weren’t so unhealthy. He’s only two years younger than me, but she treats him like a baby—feeding him, fussing, reading his mind…”
“Maybe he takes after your dad?”
“They all do—Arthur, Dad’s old school photos. Must’ve skipped me.”
Lizzie was twenty-seven. Worked at a law firm, rented a one-bed flat in an old building near King’s Cross. Her love life? Stable. After a few rough relationships, she’d decided to focus on herself for a while.
Arthur was different. Sluggish, absent-minded, allergic to effort. Barely scraped through school, picked a degree that “didn’t need maths.” Dad had sat him down for a man-to-man talk, and though Arthur had grumbled, he’d at least settled on something.
Then—Dad died. Sudden, brutal. Mum shattered. Sick, doctors, tears, pills, prayers. Her job almost collapsed. And in all that, Arthur became her only solace.
Her comfort-boy. Except he wasn’t a boy anymore.
He got a job, didn’t contribute much, but always came home for dinner before disappearing into his PC. Then Amy showed up.
At Christmas, Lizzie visited. Arthur was glued to his phone, grinning at texts, mumbling nonsense. She knew—love. And she was happy for him.
Mum wasn’t.
“You should see him!” Yvonne fretted in the kitchen later. “Used to sleep till noon, now he’s working like a dog. Weekends, overtime—all for Amy. Saving for a ring, dinners, flowers… He’s even budgeting! Doesn’t want to show up ‘empty-handed,’ he says.”
“Mum, isn’t this what you wanted? For him to grow up?” Lizzie frowned.
“Not like this! They’re always off somewhere—hiking, kayaking, all this danger! What if something happens? I’ll be alone—”
“You can’t keep someone in a bubble,” Lizzie sighed. “He’s living. That’s normal.”
Months passed. Lizzie was at lunch, fork in her soup, when her phone lit up—Mum. She answered.
“He didn’t come home last night! Stayed at her place—warned me, but I’d hoped he wouldn’t—”
“He’s almost twenty-five, Mum. He’s an adult. This is normal.”
“Not to me! I didn’t sleep. Talk to him, Lizzie. He won’t listen to me.”
She promised. But later wondered—should she? Maybe he didn’t need a sister’s lecture. Maybe he needed silence, space to figure it out himself.
Then came the new fears. Horse riding. Falls. Imaginary disasters.
“He’ll break his neck!” Mum cried. “Let Amy risk it, not him!”
Next—camping. Autumn. Tents, hikes.
“He’ll freeze! His immune system’s weak! What about bears? Ticks? Lizzie, talk to him—he’ll listen to you!”
“I’m not a sister anymore,” Lizzie complained to Emily. “I’m a switchboard. Mum says—tell him. He says—tell her. I’m stuck in the middle.”
“Maybe he’ll move out soon?” Emily mused.
“I told him—marry her and leave. Far away. Get some peace.”
Then—quiet.
Mum stopped calling. No pleas, no complaints. Lizzie worried. Dialled her.
“How are things?”
“Fine, love. But Arthur and Amy split. She… moved on. He’s devastated.”
“Right…”
“He’s home again. Glued to his PC. Moping. But at least he’s not drinking. And he’s here. Selfish, but… I feel better. He’s safe, Lizzie. Just like his father was. I still love him. Still cry every night.”
Three months later, Arthur rang.
“Can I bring Natalie round? Want you to meet her.”
Lizzie laughed. “Sure.”
But inside, she thought: *Here we go again. Mum’s going to spiral. Cry. Call. Worry. And I’ve got my own bloke to introduce soon…*
At month’s end, she and Steven planned a trip. Hiking. The thought made her nervous—what if Mum found out?
*She’ll panic over me too. What if I fall? Freeze? What if I have a kid later, and she latches onto them instead?*
Lizzie sat on her bed, whispering:
“God, it’s all so exhausting.”
She punched her knee, crying. Because she loved them too much. Mum. Arthur. Wanted them to stop being so afraid. To love without losing themselves.
Maybe that’s the lesson. Not talking to him. Or her. But to myself. Giving myself permission to be happy.
