No One Is Good Enough For My Son
Margaret Stevens sat by the window, but her thoughts were elsewhere not in this living room with the smell of medicine, but back in the life when she was young and brimming with confidence, when men admired her and she could have any she fancied. The sound of a key in the lock and the heavy steps of her son broke the spell; clearly, James was home from work.
He popped his head around the door but didnt come in, one shoulder pressed against the frame in that awkward way he always had. This indecisive, slouching posture irritated Margaret as ever. He never said what he thought outright never acted like a proper man. And she blamed it on women, of course.
Mum, he started, as if pulling the words out one by one, I need to talk to you.
Well, talk then, dont stand there like a stranger! Margaret snapped, eyes sharp as she took in his unshaven cheeks, the circles under his eyes, and that expensive new jacket worth more than two of her pension payments already looking worse for the wear.
I So, theres a woman, Mum. Its serious this time. I want to marry her.
She looked at James; her expression shifted slowly first surprise, then disbelief, then a frosty little smile.
Marry? Is that what youre thinking of? Her tone was oddly gentle, almost sweet. James, darling, have you lost your mind? Marry? You should be focusing on your career, building your life! Who are you right now? Do you even have a proper job yet? You wont have enough for child support if you marry on a whim!
James winced, as if shed slapped him, but kept quiet, jaw clenched tightly.
Mum, this is different. We’ve been together a year now. Sarah, shes shes not like the others.
Sarah? Margaret leaned forward, a predators glint in her eye. Is that the one who works at the bank? Or the one with the long ponytail three doors down? I saw her once. All done up lipstick, a skirt that would make her mum blush. That one? Or someone else?
No, Mum, not her. Sarahs from work, shes an accountant, quiet, bright,” James spoke with growing conviction, as if convincing himself, “She reads books, she cooks… We’re good, you know?
Oh, do stop, Margaret cut him off, waving a hand with authority. James stopped mid-sentence; that gesture had been commanding him for years. She reads books so what? You dont understand women, James. Theyre all the same: romantic books at first, batting their lashes, then before you know it, youre stuck, three kids in tow and no flat to call your own. Take it from me Ive lived life and I know whats good for you, silly boy!
Mum, thats enough! James moved a step forward; for the first time, there was irritation in his voice. Im not a child. Im twenty-five, not fifteen. I want a family, children, a normal life!
And whats this then, not normal? Margaret sprang up from her chair, her face twisted in theatrical pain. James felt familiar guilt rise, as sticky as mud. Didnt I give you a good life? I dragged you through uni, helped you find work, and you call that not normal? If it wasnt for me, youd be out with the drunks under the railway bridge, thats where youd be!
She started sobbing loudly, with all the dramatic handkerchief-dabbing hed seen so many times before. And, still, James couldnt help himself; he came and put a hand on her shoulder.
Thats enough, Mum. I didnt mean it like that
How did you mean it then? she pulled away, dry eyes flashing. Think, James what can you give her? Youre just a boy. Your Sarah will leave you as soon as shes bored. Ive seen their type. They just want fun, someone easy. Then its all clubs and girlfriends, and youre left with nothing.
James said nothing, which, Margaret knew, was as good as agreeing. Her son was weak, malleable. If she didnt stop this now, it would be too late.
And another thing, she added confidentially, like she was sharing a great secret, Ive heard your Sarah isnt as straightforward as she seems. There are rumours about her past, you know. Im not saying theyre true, but where theres smoke
James shrank back, as if struck.
What rumours? What past? he said, confused exactly what Margaret was banking on.
Check it out for yourself and see. She shrugged with the air of someone whod said just enough. Im your mother, Im looking out for you. Do as you like. Just dont say I didnt warn you.
She turned back to the window. James wanted to protest, say it was nonsense, but he found doubt spreading through him.
***
Years passed. James never asked. He just stopped calling, stopped replying to Sarahs messages, and when she finally confronted him, he said he needed time and now wasnt right. She waited for a while, then gave up and married a salesman at the local car dealership.
Next came Emily a redhead, always laughing, freckles everywhere. She was a pharmacist at the chemists just two streets down. They dated nearly a year. Emily even dropped hints about marriage. But by then, Margaret had tasted victory and ruled her sons life as her own, quickly poisoning this romance too.
James, you ought to pay attention, shed say after Emily left, her perfume lingering. She thinks youre a fool. Look at how she talks to you: patronising, like youre not even a man Her fathers an alcoholic, you know. Inherited problems! Youll have troublesome children and wholl have to raise them? Me? My nerves couldnt stand it.
Oh, Mum, dont be ridiculous, James protested, but his old defiance was fading. Emilys decent. Her fathers given up drinking. I know that.
Given up or not Margaret pursed her lips knowingly. Take my advice, Ive lived longer. Besides, look at her shes just a shop girl. Youre an engineer, with prospects! You need someone respectable, someone to be proud of.
Emily found out James had, on his mothers prompting, gone through her private things, and the resulting row nearly shattered all the glass in the flat. She called him a mummys boy whod never amount to anything, and that he deserved someone as spiteful and bitter as his mother. James feebly tried to stand up for himself, but Margaret, listening from next door, swept in with injured dignity: Not in my house! If you dont like it, the doors there. Emily walked out.
By the time James met Claire, he was thirty-two. Claire was different; thoughtful, another engineer at the factory where he worked. Their relationship developed slowly and business-like: no drama, no fuss. James thought hed finally got it right someone he could introduce to his mother. Claire was his age, had her own flat and car, and, crucially, regarded Margaret politely, but not obsequiously. That put Margaret on edge.
So what is it you like about her? she asked one evening as James returned, relaxed and happy from a date. Shes no looker, and you can see shell boss you about you wont get a word in!
Mum, what does it matter if shes beautiful or not? he answered, weary. Shes a good person. Were applying for a marriage licence soon.
Are you? Margaret almost dropped her spoon in shock. Did you bother asking me? Have you lost your senses, James? Come here. We need to talk!
Their discussion dragged on for hours shouting, accusations, the classic I gave you life and this is how you repay me, bringing someone like that into my house? James tried to argue that he was over thirty, sick of being alone. Margaret steamrollered every protest: I know best! And when James, emboldened, said it was his life, Margaret launched into hysterics, clutching her chest and groping for pills. He fetched her water and tablets. She performed the episode so masterfully that doubt never crossed his mind.
When Claire learned the wedding was postponed indefinitely because of family circumstances, she didnt argue or scream. She simply looked at James with pity and said, Are you a grown man or what? Thirty-two, and youre still on a leash. Your mums quite something; I noticed that early on. I actually thought you could think for yourself. You know what? Im off. And take her with you.
Margaret, hearing about the break-up, cuddled her son with relief: Thats for the best, darling. A snake, she was. Youll find someone better, younger, prettier. Come, lets have a cup of tea. I made scones.
***
James spent his fortieth birthday at a table Margaret had set with pork pies, pickled herring, and three sorts of scone. Guests: just his mother and older sister, Susan whod married at twenty-three, divorced, and now worked two jobs as a single mum, barely scraping by. She regarded her brother with a combination of envy and sadness.
Well, James, happy birthday, Susan said, clinking her glass. Forty today. Still a young man in your prime, eh? So what do you have? Good job, proper wage but no family, no children. And probably wont now, will you?
Susan, dont start, Margaret warned.
Why not? Susan put the glass down and turned to their mother. James watched her face twist with anger. Well, Mum? You happy? Spent his whole life filling his head with nonsense, chased off decent women, and now there you are! Your boys a lonely old bachelor. Happy now?
Dont shout at me! Margaret put her fork down, her face the familiar mask of wounded innocence. Did I ever forbid him? I only ever gave advice. Hes grown up, he should make his own decisions. If he failed at life, thats on him!
Oh, on him! Susan nearly shouted. Who warned him off Sarah with gossip? Who ruined things with Emily and Claire? Who? You! Hes not useless you just kept him dancing round you, like a pet! She stood, picking up her bag. “Well, thanks to you, both our lives are a mess.”
James tried to object, his voice trembling.
Dont try to stop me! Susan glared at him. And you, James what are you? A doormat? Forty, and cant organise your own life because youre scared to upset Mum. You know youre hopeless, dont you? Cant even choose a woman because youre too afraid of your mother!
Get out of my house! Margaret shouted, her face white with rage. Out, both of you! Ill curse you if you dont go!
Oh, curse away! Susan yelled, slamming the door. Thanks for the life sentence. And you, James if you never break free, youll die here. Alone.
James just sat, staring at a spot on the table, while Margaret dabbed at imaginary tears. James, darling, you heard her! The venom in her imagine hating your own mother like that
He was silent, staring at his hands, the crumbs, the scones on his plate, feeling something vast rise inside anger, resentment, bound up with love and habit. But, as always, he said nothing.
***
Three more years rolled by. Now forty-three, James was scrolling mindlessly through his phone one night when he saw an advert for a dating website. He stared at the happy, smiling faces, thinking: why not? Margaret had grown quieter: either shed tired of it, or realised shed gone too far.
He signed up. Agonised over his picture the choices were photos of a much younger man. He picked one from when he was twenty-five, guitar in hand, hair tousled, smile wide long before hed gone bald and soft. For his profile, he wrote that he was a top manager who travelled a lot, looking for real love.
He called himself WaitingForYou. That evening he got his first message.
Hi, handsome 
wrote a blonde named Sophie, her avatar perfection itself. You look so photogenic! Where did you travel last?
James replied with Thailand, because it sounded impressive. If youre going to lie, might as well do it properly. Their banter was light, Sophie quick and charming. Sophie, she said, worked in marketing, loved wine and long walks, wanted marriage and children. As James read her words, he felt an old hope stirring inside him.
Youre beautiful, he wrote, honestly.
You too! Such kind eyes I think Im already falling for you! she replied.
They arranged a date in a snug restaurant in central London. James, hopeful, bought a new suit it barely buttoned over his belly and ordered a bouquet of red roses, having read online that they symbolised passion.
He arrived half an hour early, snagged a window seat, bought a bottle of expensive wine, and waited. His heart thudded, palms sweating; he fiddled with his tie, nervous but excited. Here it was the fresh start, finally.
Sophie arrived at seven, tall, slim, every hair in place. The moment she caught sight of him anxious, flushed, overdressed, hands shaky James saw dismay flicker across her face.
James? she asked, uncertain, disappointment seeping out with every syllable.
Yes, thats me, he said, standing with a practiced grin. And you must be Sophie?
She sat across from him, and in the long, awkward silence, James realised something had gone wrong. Sophie glanced from him to the flowers to the wine; her perfect face shifted from surprise to let-down, then to indignation.
So, how old are you? she asked bluntly.
Forty-three, James admitted, mortified. Why?
And how old were you in the photo? Nineteen? She scoffed, and James wished he could vanish. You think I wouldnt notice?
Sophie, I he began, but she cut him off, her voice rising.
Did you think youd trick me? I was serious about all of this! Thought Id finally found a decent bloke, someone to build a life with! But you? Old, balding, lying about who you are. Did you really think Id fall for this?
I didnt mean
You didnt mean? she repeated, gathering her things, glaring down. Youre not even a real man, just a sad excuse. Carry on like this and you’ll be alone forever. Good day to you.
She left. James sat gazing at the untouched roses and beads of condensation on the wine. The waiter cleared his throat bill due regardless and James, hands shaking, paid and thought bitterly: this is probably justice. I deceived, I was deceived, and now Im alone as ever.
***
Afterwards, James slipped into a daze. At home, Margaret of course sniffed out the failed date.
And what did I say? I told you, James. All those dating sites full of gold diggers and liars. What you need is a steady, homely woman. The new bookkeeper at the council office shes a widow, flat in town, nice car. Why chase after the young and pretty?
James didnt reply. He looked at his mother, hands busy with scone dough, and for the first time in years realised that if he didnt leave, he really never would.
That Saturday morning, Margaret orchestrated the kitchen, as always. James quietly packed a bag, folded clothes, gathered papers, slipped his savings into his case, and headed to the hallway.
Where are you going? Margaret called, peering in.
Im off, James said, zipping his bag. Going to stay at my allotment for a while. I need a break.
What do you mean, youre leaving? She stood in his path, hands on hips. Youre deserting me? What if Im ill? If my blood pressure spikes? Youd just abandon your own mother?
Mum, move. He looked at her. Im tired. I just Im tired.
Tired of what? Of me?! she clung to his bag, face contorting. I raised you, brought you up, gave you everything and now you leave me? Is that all Im worth? Is that who you are, James? Youre a selfish, ungrateful
Yes, I am, he confirmed. Because I never made a life. Because I always listened to you. Because now, at forty-three, I have nothing and nowhere to go.
Then dont go! she shouted, clutching harder. Stay! I promise, Ill never say another word. You want to marry? Go ahead! Anyone you like! Just dont leave me, James, my darling, dont leave your poor old mum!
This time, her tears were genuine, rolling down her cheeks. James stood firm, thinking of Sarah, Emily, Claire, Sophie, his fortieth birthday, his sisters words. He stepped forward.
Forgive me, Mum, he said, peeling her hands off his bag. But I must.
She shrieked, all kindness gone: If you leave, youll regret it! Youll never manage! Youre nothing without me! Nothing! Remember that, James! Nothing!
James walked out and closed the door.
***
At the station, he left his bag in the luggage office and wandered outside, rain drizzling steadily. He bought a cheap coffee, stood watching the trains, heart thumping. Where? Home wasnt an option, his sisters place too humiliating. The allotment, maybe. There, at least, it was quiet a place to think.
Hed just turned towards the local train when a woman approached, a little flustered.
Excuse me, sir! Would you mind helping me? This is awfully heavy and my cars ages away
James turned to see a woman in her mid-thirties, a little plump, holding an armful of flowers now slipping dangerously close to the wet platform.
Let me, James said, grabbing the flowers. Which way?
Just round the corner, the cars over there, she breathed out in relief and smiled a genuine, open smile. I was sure Id drop them everywhere. Thank you so much!
No trouble, he replied, walking alongside. Carrying a bunch of flowers for a stranger filled him with sudden warmth, a forgotten kind of good.
Is it your birthday, or some celebration?
She laughed. No, no, corporate do. Im Hope Walker, by the way. And you?
James, he said, surprised to find he didnt want to go to the allotment at all he wanted to go with this woman, with Hope, carry her ridiculous flowers and chat about anything.
Is your place far? he asked.
Down Victoria Road, Hope replied, just as Jamess phone started buzzing his mum, of course.
Will you answer that? Hope asked.
No, James replied, declining the call. Instantly, the phone buzzed again: not giving up yet, as ever. No, I wont. Let me help you to your car then, if youd like, lets get a coffee after. A real coffee, not the rubbish from the machine. What do you say?
Hope gave him a long look at his balding head, tired eyes, worn but clean coat, his careful hands holding her flowers and smiled.
That sounds wonderful, she said. But only after you help me wedge these flowers in the boot.
They walked to her car. James, while Hope juggled the boot, heard his phone buzz once more persistent, demanding. He ignored it. A minute later, a text: James, where are you? Im worried. Call me. James glanced at the screen, then at Hope, and pocketed the phone with a smile.
How about we try that café on the corner? he suggested. I promised you coffee. The flowers wont mind a short wait.
Hope glanced at him with a warmth James hadnt felt in years. And a pastry, please Ive broken every diet today already.
They sat in the little café by the window. James, watching Hope laugh and choose a slice of cake, share stories of missed trains and accidents with flowers, felt for the first time in decades like hed found something real something stolen from him every time before by his mothers need and opinion. And this time, perhaps, he would finally try saying no. Maybe now, he really would.
The coffee was fresh, the cake sweet, and James realised he was smiling, just because for the first time in many long years.
And so, James learned that its never too late for change as long as you have the courage to take that first step, even if its only out the front door.
