My son is sixteen. Two weeks ago, he looked anywhere but at me and said the words that have hung in the air ever since.
Mum, I was thinking about something, he mumbled, picking at a thread in his sleeve. I think I want to go and live with Dad.
I asked him why, bracing myself for the old clichés. I expected a slam of I hate you, or Youre so annoying. But he didnt say anything so easy to brush away. What he said cut deeper.
Because everythings simpler there.
His father and I split up two years ago, after years of tension that drained the colour from our marriage. Endless disagreements about parenting, noisy rows that bled into everything. I was always the one to set boundaries, to say no, to hold the line. He would roll his eyes and say I was too strict, too uptight, making mountains out of molehills. When we finally divorced, our son stayed with meit just made sense. I was the one who knew about the missed homework, the late-night worries, the forgotten football boots.
Life with my son is straightforward but not easy. Im up every morning before sunrise, making porridge, reminding him to pack his schoolbooks, checking that he grabs his PE kit, making sure he doesnt lose himself to his phone half the night. When he gets back from school, I ask about his day, I check his grades, I go through his homework with him. Not because I want to boss him about, but because if I dont, no one will.
But weekends at his dads are a different world. His dad collects him Friday afternoon, and drops him home on Sunday evening, like clockwork. Those days are a festival of takeaways and games. Pizza Friday, burger Saturday, PlayStation marathons till dawn. His dad tosses out lines like:
Leave it, mate, sort it out Monday.
Come on, youve done enough schoolwork all week.
Its not boot camp round here.
One Sunday, after his dad left, my son blurted:
At Dads, nobodys nagging me all the time!
I told him:
Thats because your dad doesnt have to wake you every morning, doesnt have to worry about your school work, doesnt have to keep track of you day in, day out.
He scowled, accusing meYou always think youre right.
Of course the comparisons started. At Dads, he could sleep in; nobody checked his phone; there were no explanations needed for what he did, or where he went. I tried, over and over, to explainhis father only sees the weekend version, not the everyday reality. He shut his ears to it all.
Then came the slip in his grades. I sat him down, said, We have to do some more revision, tackle this properly. His reply was cold:
If I lived at Dads, this wouldnt even be a thing.
And I realised he was mistaking freedom for irresponsibility.
I spoke to his father. You need to be honest with himdont pretend lifes all fun and games.
His dad just shrugged: Hes old enough to choose now.
Never once did his dad say hed take on the hard part, lay down rules, hold our son to his responsibilities. He stood by, letting our son dream up a version of life that only happens Friday to Sunday.
One evening, my son said something that made my heart tremble.
Mum, youre always tired or stressed out.
I didnt shout. I said quietly,
Im tired because Im the one looking after things.
I reminded him of the nights I sat by his bed when he was ill, the mornings when school called me in, the days I missed work because he needed me. He looked awayno words.
And now, here we area stalemate. He wants to leave, to chase the easy life. I dont want to force him to stay, but I cant bear to surrender him to an illusion. Im frightened hell run off, believing life is just a weekend, and only come home after learning the hard way.
I dont know what the right answer is. All I know is it hurtsto be loved less for doing the right thing. It hurts being the responsible mum when someone else gets to be the fun dad.
What would you do if you were me?
