Let Them Stay With You!

“Let them stay with you! You’re the one who raised them like this!” Mark’s voice crackled through the phone, raw with anger. I could hear him pacing in his apartment, the familiar squeak of his old wooden floors echoing in the background. My hand gripped the receiver so tightly I thought it might crack. The kitchen around me was still—only the hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of the wall clock kept me company as my ex-husband’s words hung in the air.

“They can’t stay here, Susan! It’s your turn! You always let Kevin do whatever the hell he wanted. You made him soft. Now deal with it!”

I wanted to scream back, to tell him that it wasn’t about taking turns, that this wasn’t a game we played with our children’s lives. But all I could do was close my eyes and swallow the lump in my throat.

The issue was our son, Kevin. He was twenty-three now, with that same stubborn jawline Mark had at his age and the same restless spirit. Kevin had just graduated from college—a degree in English, which Mark never stopped mocking—and had been trying to find steady work. He’d met a girl, Ashley, and together they’d decided to move in. But jobs were scarce, and rent in Boston was a monster. So naturally, they asked to stay with me until they got on their feet.

But when Mark found out, he called, spitting blame and anger, as if I’d somehow engineered the whole situation. I could barely get a word in.

“Mark, stop. Please, just listen—”

He cut me off. “You coddled him, Susan. Now you deal with the consequences.”

He hung up. Just like that. The silence that followed felt heavier than his yelling.

I set the phone down and stood at the window, watching the late afternoon sunlight paint golden squares on the kitchen floor. Ashley was due to arrive later, and Kevin was out, probably walking off his nerves. I thought back to when Kevin was little, how he’d run to me after a scraped knee or a bad dream. Back then, I’d believed I could fix anything with a hug and a few gentle words.

Now, I wasn’t so sure.

The door creaked open. Ashley stepped in, clutching a paper bag of groceries, her dark hair falling across her face. She tried to smile, but her eyes were tired.

“Hey, Susan. Sorry I’m late. The bus took forever.”

“It’s fine, Ashley,” I said, forcing a smile. “You don’t have to apologize.”

She set the bag down and hesitated. “Kevin’s not back yet?”

“No. He needed some air.” I paused, unsure how much to say. “Ashley, I know this isn’t easy. I just… I want you both to feel at home, but—”

She cut in, her voice small. “We’ll help out, I swear. With groceries, chores… whatever you need.”

“It’s not that,” I said, though I knew that was only partly true. The house felt cramped, the boundaries fuzzy, and my own sense of peace was splintered by Mark’s accusations. “I just want us to be honest with each other. That’s all.”

Ashley nodded, her eyes shining a little too brightly. “Thank you, Susan. Really.”

Later, when Kevin returned, he looked defeated. His backpack slung over one shoulder, he slumped at the kitchen table, staring at his hands. I poured him some coffee and sat across from him.

“Dad called,” he said quietly.

My heart jumped. “What did he say?”

Kevin shrugged. “Same stuff. That I need to ‘man up.’ That I’m freeloading. That you’re letting me get away with it.”

A hot flush crept up my neck. “You’re not freeloading. You’re trying. It’s hard out there.”

He shook his head. “He doesn’t get it. He never does.”

I wanted to reach out, to put my hand over his, but something held me back. Maybe pride. Maybe fear that he’d pull away.

“Kevin,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “I know things haven’t been easy. For any of us. Your dad and I… we both want what’s best for you, even if we don’t agree on what that is.”

He looked up, eyes brimming with frustration. “I just want a chance, Mom. That’s all.”

I nodded, blinking back my own tears. “I know. And you’ll get it. You and Ashley both. But I need you to promise me something.”

He frowned. “What?”

“That you’ll talk to me. Really talk. Don’t shut me out. It’s the only way this will work.”

He nodded, and a small, sad smile flickered across his lips. “Deal.”

That night, after they’d gone to bed, I sat alone at the kitchen table, phone in hand. I scrolled through old photos—Kevin as a toddler, grinning with ice cream smeared across his face; Kevin at his high school graduation, cap askew, Mark with a forced smile beside him. I wondered if I’d really coddled him, if I’d failed to teach him resilience. Or maybe, I thought, maybe I’d just loved him the best way I knew how, and the world had changed more than either Mark or I could keep up with.

The next day, Mark texted me. Just three words: “You’ll regret this.”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I got up, made breakfast for Kevin and Ashley, and listened to them laugh softly over their coffee. The house felt warmer, somehow. Not perfect, but alive.

Now, some nights, I lie awake and replay Mark’s words. I wonder if I did make Kevin “soft,” or if I taught him kindness in a world that sometimes mistakes it for weakness. And sometimes, when the doubts threaten to swallow me, I think about Kevin’s promise at the kitchen table and the way Ashley thanked me with tears in her eyes.

Is love ever really a mistake? Or is it just the only thing we can give, even when the world says it isn’t enough?