Just Hold On a Bit Longer, Mum

27October2025

I can still hear his tiny scream echoing through the living room: When will Daddy be home? Where is Daddy? Daddy, Daddy! The little voice tore at my nerves; each shout seemed to pound against my temples. I stood there, cheeks flushed from his outburst, fists clenched tight.

Your fathers at work, love, he should be back in about an hour. Calm down, sweetheart. Lets talk, I tried to say as steadily as I could, even though inside I felt like a knot tightening around my throat. I dont want to talk to you! Youre useless! I only want Daddy! he shouted, stomping his foot, his voice cracking into a whine.

Tears gathered at the back of my throat. Watching my tenyearold son, I couldnt understand how it had come to this. Id given him my whole life. For years I worked from home, never missing a moment beside him. When he started school I went into the office, but we still spent every free minute togethervisiting the zoo, wandering museums, evening walks, bedtime stories. Everything was for him, everything for him.

I dont love you! Im fed up with you! Im tired of you! he bellowed, each word slicing through me. I turned away, hand over my mouth to keep the tears from spilling. I couldnt let myself break in front of him. How had a mother who loved him more than life become, in his eyes, nothing but an empty space? Why did he keep demanding his fathers presence, never satisfying his need for me?

Jack, please stop shouting. Daddy will be home soon, I pleaded once more, my voice trembling. I dont want to wait! I want him now! Youre a bad mum! You

The sudden ring of the telephone cut through his cries. Jack lunged for the handset, snatching it from my hand.

Daddy! Daddy! he shouted into the receiver, eyes glued to the screen.

I stepped back, recognizing the baritone voice that had always filled our home. Hey, champ, hows it going? My husbands cheerful tone drifted through the speaker.

Dad, Ive missed you! Mums driving me mad, when will you be home? Jack pressed the phone to his ear, his face lighting up.

A pause. I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

Sorry, love, Im stuck at work a few more hours. Hang in there with Mum, Ill be back soon. The words hang in there with Mum lodged in my mind like a stubborn riddle, as if my very presence had become a burden to be endured.

Okay, Daddy, Ill wait! Jack beamed, his joy spilling into the room.

I turned and fled to my bedroom, legs trembling, throat dry. I closed the door softly and collapsed onto the bed, the floodgates finally opening. Why? Why did neither son nor husband seem to value me? Why had I become an obstacle that needed to be tolerated?

I pressed my face into the pillow, trying to weep quietly. Everything felt so unfair. Id dreamed of this child, planned how to love him, and now he didnt love me. What lay ahead? Puberty, more impossible moods, louder demands.

Time dragged on. From the next room I could hear the television, a sign that Jack had finally settled without me. I stared at the ceiling, wondering how to live with this ache, how to keep being a mother to someone who rejected me.

Around nine oclock I sent Jack off to bed. He huffed, still demanding his father, but fatigue finally won and he drifted off.

Close to midnight the front door clicked. David slipped in, shoes muffled on the hallway carpet. I met him midway, arms crossed tight.

Do you realise how often he waits for you? How can you be late again? My voice trembled with restrained anger.

He hung his coat without a glance at me. It was a corporate event, love. I couldnt leave early. Work, you know.

Is the corporate gala more important than our childs emotions? I whispered, trying not to wake Jack.

Dont make a scene, Emily. Im providing for the family.

And what am I providing? Just ticking in and out of an office? I snapped.

He disappeared into the bedroom, as if my concerns didnt exist. I stayed in the hallway, the house suddenly cold. I slept on the sofa, turning over the nights thoughts. Is this really my life? Will it always be like this?

Morning found the kitchen alive with laughter. Jack and David were seated at the table, chatting over breakfast. Jack chattered about school, and David listened, asking questions.

Morning, I said, stepping in, forcing a smile.

Jack didnt even look up. David gave a nod, still absorbed in his sons story. I poured myself a cup of tea and sat down.

Yesterday we had a tough maths problem, Jack announced to his father. I solved it myself!

Well done! Did Mum help you? David asked.

Why would I need Mum? I did it on my own. Jack replied.

I tried to intervene. Jack, could you show me the problem? Im curious.

He kept talking to his dad, ignoring me. David didnt acknowledge my attempt either. I felt like a piece of furniture, invisible in my own home.

Weeks passed in the same pattern. Jack shouted, demanded his dad, ignored my attempts at connection. David arrived home late, and in the mornings he only spoke to Jack. I increasingly felt superfluous.

One afternoon, after the smallest of disputeswhen I asked Jack to tidy his toyshe hurled them onto the floor, screeching that he wouldnt listen. Something inside me finally cracked.

That evening, when David walked through the front door, I said plainly, Im filing for divorce.

He stared at his phone, then at me, bewildered. What?

You heard me. Im filing for divorce.

He set his phone down, squinting. Where will you go? You have no place of your own. Your parents live in Manchester. The flat is mine. After the split you wont have a roof over your head!

I met his gaze. I know the flat belongs to you, and thats why Ill argue in court that the child should stay with you.

His face turned ashen. How can that be? I cant look after him alone! I have work!

I have work too, I replied. He needs a father, not a mother, thats what he keeps saying. Hell get what he wants.

He opened his mouth, but I was already out the room, the decision sealed.

A month later the court heard the case. I was staying with my friend Claire, looking for a modest place of my own. Jack didnt call or text. The Childrens Services officer, a middleaged woman in a sharp suit, interviewed Jack separately. At ten, his wishes mattered.

The courtroom read his statement: I want to live with my dad. I feel uncomfortable with Mum. I love Dad more. Each word pierced my chest. I stared at the desk, fighting the urge to cry as my son publicly renounced me.

The court, considering the childs preference and the fathers higher income and own accommodation, orders that the child remain with the father, the judge declared.

Later, David caught up with me in the hallway. Listen, take the child! I cant look after him; I travel for work. What am I supposed to do?

I turned. I have a job too. Ill be looking for a place. The child stays with you as the court decided. Ill pay maintenance and visit every few weeks.

But youre his mother!

And youre his father. He loves you. Live with that.

I walked away without looking back.

I moved into a tiny studiotwenty square metres of cramped kitchen, bathroom, and a single bed. It was my own space, free from shouting, from being ignored, from humiliation. The first night I wept for everything Id lostmy husband, my family, the life Id imagined. Yet I was no longer being belittled.

Visits from Jack became rare, perhaps once every fortnight. He would come over, still lashing out. Because of you the family fell apart! Dad is rarely home now! I have a nanny! I hate you! hed yell from the sofa. After each encounter I would break down, but I kept moving forward. I found a new job with a decent salary, furnished the flat, joined adultlearning classes.

Claires motherinlaw called almost weekly. How could you abandon him and leave him with David? What kind of mother are you? shed hiss.

Its his son too, I replied calmly. Jack chose to stay with his dad. Why should I force him against his wishes?

But children dont understand!

Jack is ten, not five. He got what he wanted.

Years slipped by. I built a new life: a job I liked, a cosy little home, hobbies, friends. The constant stress faded, the shouting ceased.

Five years later Jack, now a teenager, said quietly, Mum, I was wrong. I see now I hurt you, and Im part of why we split.

I brushed his hair, a gesture from long ago. Its alright. I hope your own children will treat you better.

The love I once felt for him remained, though its shape had changed. I didnt know if that was good or bad, but I was no longer letting it destroy me. Perhaps Id been judged a bad mother by societys standards, but I stayed true to myself, and that mattered most.