5 October 2025
Returned home this morning after the last week of demob, the hallway still smelled of damp boots and my coat that hadnt quite dried yet. Mum had hung it on the low hook, leaving the spot for my jacket empty. I slipped in almost silently, my shortcropped hair still crisp from the barracks, dark uniform folded tight over me. She caught a flicker in my eyes not the hard stare of a soldier but a wary glance. She hurriedly straighten the welcome mat and gave a small smile.
Come in everythings ready. Ive aired the room and put fresh sheets on the bed.
I nodded, half out of politeness, half from genuine gratitude it was hard to tell. I set my suitcase against the wall and lingered in the doorway, taking in the familiar wallpaper of faded diamonds, the shelf of the books Id read as a child. It all seemed unchanged, except the air was noticeably cooler; the central heating had been switched off a week ago.
In the kitchen Mum laid out plates, a pot of cabbage stew because Id asked for it, and potatoes with chives shed bought from the greengrocer. She tried to keep her tone even:
You could have called earlier I thought Id meet you at the station.
I shrugged.
Wanted to make it on my own.
The pause stretched, broken only by the clink of a spoon against the bowls rim. I ate slowly, almost without speaking, answering briefly about the road, the unit the commander was a decent bloke. Mum caught herself looking for a way to ask about my future, but she didnt dare bring up work or plans outright.
After dinner she set about cleaning the kitchen the familiar motions soothed her better than any conversation could. I retreated to my room, leaving the door ajar; only the back of a chair and the edge of my suitcase were visible from the hall.
Later, I fetched a glass of water and paused by the livingroom window. A light draught from the cracked sash reminded me that summer was just beginning; the sun lingered low, spilling soft light onto the windowsill where my potted herbs stood.
The next morning Mum rose before me, listening to my quiet breathing through the thin wall of my bedroom, trying not to clatter the dishes. The flat felt tighter; my belongings had reclaimed their old spots in the hallway and bathroom, and the toothbrush beside her chipped mug looked oddly vivid.
I spent most of the day at the laptop or scrolling my phone, only breaking for breakfast or lunch. Mum tried to chat about the weather or the neighbours; I gave clipped replies or slipped back to my own world.
One afternoon she returned from the market with fresh dill and spring onions.
Look! Your favourite herbs
I glanced at them, distracted.
Thanks maybe later?
The herbs wilted quickly on the table the flat grew warmer as evening fell, and Mum was reluctant to keep the windows open for too long; Ive never liked draughts.
Evenings were marked by awkward silences at dinner. I rarely praised the food, usually just ate in silence or asked to save my plate for the next day Id lost my appetite. Occasionally Id forget to clear my cup or leave the bread tin open after a midnight snack.
Mum noticed these small things; she used to see me tidy the table without prompting. Now she felt uneasy reminding an adult son, so she wiped crumbs herself. Little mishaps multiplied unnoticed: the towel vanished from the bathroom Id taken it to my room; someone misplaced the keys to the postbox, leading us both on a fruitless search through bags and bills.
One morning Mum found the bread tin empty.
We need to buy a loaf
I mumbled from my room, Fine.
She planned to pop to the shop after work, but a long queue at the pharmacy delayed her return. By evening she came home exhausted.
I was standing by the fridge, phone in hand. She opened the tin automatically, only to find no bread. She sighed, weary.
You said youd get a loaf, didnt you?
I turned sharply, my voice louder than usual.
Forgot! Got my own things to do!
I could see the irritation flicker on her face despite her fatigue.
Of course you always forget things!
Our voices rose, the cramped kitchen feeling suddenly suffocating. Each of us tried to prove a point, but underneath it all was plain exhaustion, an inability to find common ground, and a fear of losing the closeness that had once seemed so simple.
When the argument ended, the flat fell quiet, as if the storm of words had been absorbed by the night air. The desk lamp cast a faint glow on the empty tin, stretching a long shadow across the floor. I lay awake, listening to the occasional click of a light switch, the distant hum of water in the bathroom. I treaded lightly around the house, as if the walls themselves were both familiar and foreign.
I thought back to the days before I enlisted everything was straightforward; I could ask for a favour, scold for missed rubbish or a late dinner. Now every word felt risky, each attempt at humor or criticism a potential misstep. The tension was really just fatigue hers from a long workday, mine from months of silence in a foreign barracks.
It was nearly two in the morning when I heard soft footsteps in the hallway. The kitchen door creaked; I poured water from the decanter. Mum lifted herself on an elbow, debating whether to stay in bed or get up. She chose to rise, slipped into a robe and padded barefoot across the cool floor.
The kitchen still smelled of the damp cloth shed used to wipe the countertop the night before. I stood by the window, shoulders slightly slumped, glass in my hand.
Cant sleep? she whispered.
I shivered just a fraction, not turning immediately.
Neither can I
A heavy silence settled, broken only by a single drop sliding down the glass.
Im sorry about tonight I raised my voice for nothing, she said. Youre tired and Im tired too.
I turned slowly.
Its my fault everything feels strange now.
My voice was hoarse from disuse. I avoided her eyes.
We fell quiet again, but the tension seemed to lift with those simple words. She pulled a box of tea toward me, an automatic, comforting gesture.
Youre an adult now, she said gently. I need to learn to let you be a bit more independent Im always scared Ill miss something or do it wrong.
I met her gaze.
I dont really know how to be here yet back then it was: they said I did; now home is a different set of rules without me.
She smiled faintly.
Were both learning to live together again perhaps we should make some agreements?
I shrugged.
Sure, why not.
The relief of that willingness was palpable. We agreed aloud who would handle groceries (Id buy a loaf every other day), who would clear the dishes after dinner, and that wed each have some evening alone time without being interrogated about where we were or what we were doing. It was just the start of change, but the honesty felt important.
Mum then asked about my plans for work.
You were thinking of looking for something? Do you still have your service documents?
I nodded.
Theyre in my rucksack with the discharge papers just dont know where to go next.
She mentioned the local Jobcentre, the free advisory services and programmes for veterans.
Do you think its worth a visit?
I guess so maybe you could come with me in the morning, just for company, or help sort the paperwork.
I contemplated for a while, then said, Lets try together first.
The kitchen grew a little warmer perhaps because the overhead light was off and only the lamp glowed, perhaps because we finally spoke calmly. Outside, neighbour houses flickered with latespring lights; somewhere nearby, students voices and birdsong drifted in through the open window.
When our conversation ended naturally, we cleared the cups and wiped the countertop with the damp cloth. Dawn filtered through the heavy curtains, the city waking slowly. In the courtyard, schoolchildrens chatter and sparrows chirps filled the air this time, opening the windows felt safe. The chill of the night had faded along with the anxieties of the past days.
Mum brewed a pot of tea and, instead of missing bread, laid out a packet of wholemeal biscuits for breakfast. She spread my service documents the redcovered service record, the discharge certificate, and my passport on the table. She looked at them calmly; they now symbolised a new chapter beginning here and now.
I shuffled out of my room, no longer the distant stranger Id felt earlier, sat opposite her and managed a brief smile.
Thanks, Mum.
She replied simply, Shall we head out together today?
I nodded, and that yes felt more significant than any promise Id ever made.
Lesson: honesty, small gestures and a willingness to renegotiate the everyday are the foundations for rebuilding life after service.
