I told my son to move out, and he wrecked the flat I wanted to give to his sister
My son, Oliver, treated me and his younger sister with such cruelty that I’m still reeling. His betrayal cut deeper than a knife, shattering the trust I’d placed in him all my life. This story is about a mother’s love, broken dreams, and a family rift that’s left us all picking up the pieces.
My name is Margaret Wilson, and I’m 62. I live in a quiet little town in the Cotswolds, where I raised two children—Oliver, my son, and Emily, my daughter. Recently, I asked Oliver to move out of the flat he’d been living in with his wife so Emily could live there instead. But when we walked in, what we saw left us speechless. Oliver and his wife, Hannah, didn’t just leave—they stripped the place bare. They tore off the wallpaper, ripped up the laminate flooring, took the light fixtures, curtain rails, and even made off with the bathtub and toilet. I’m convinced it was revenge, and I’ve got a sneaking suspicion Hannah put him up to it.
Ten years ago, when Oliver married Hannah, I inherited a two-bedroom flat from my aunt. At the time, the newlyweds were expecting their first child, and wanting to help, I let them move in. “Stay for now,” I said. “But it’s not a gift—just temporary until you buy your own place.” The flat was old, untouched for years, since my elderly aunt had lived there. Oliver and Hannah, with help from her parents, spent their money fixing it up—new windows, wiring, plumbing, fresh furniture, the lot. I was happy they’d made it nice, but I always reminded them: this wasn’t theirs.
Years flew by. Oliver and Hannah had two kids, got them into the local nursery and school. Life was easy for them, and they seemed to forget my warnings. In ten years, they hadn’t saved for a mortgage or made a single move toward buying their own home. I stayed quiet, not wanting to rock the boat. But everything changed when Emily, my youngest, announced she wanted her own place. At 24, fresh out of university and starting her career, she was dreaming of independence—maybe even marriage. I decided it was time to let her have the flat.
When I told Oliver it was time to leave, he went pale. “You’re kicking us out?” he snapped. Hannah stayed silent, but her glare said it all. “I warned you the flat wasn’t yours forever,” I said firmly. “You’ve had years to save. Rent somewhere or move in with Hannah’s parents.” I gave them a month to find a new place, but that month turned into a nightmare. We argued every day—Oliver screaming that I was ruining their lives, Hannah accusing me of favouritism. I held my ground, but their anger broke my heart.
Finally, they left. Emily and I went to clean the flat before she moved in—but what we found was worse than anything we could’ve imagined. The place was a wreck: bare walls, torn-up floors, missing light fittings, even the loo and bathtub were gone. Shaking with anger, I dialled Oliver’s number. “How could you do this to me and your sister? It’s despicable!” He just scoffed. “I’m not leaving Emily a renovated flat! Hannah and I paid for everything—our money, our time, our effort. Why should I hand her a freebie?”
His words gutted me. Emily, standing beside me, burst into tears. At 24, she can’t afford to fix this, and as a pensioner, neither can I—my monthly cheque barely covers my own bills. The flat’s uninhabitable, while Oliver and Hannah are probably smugly sipping their tea, pleased with their handiwork. I gave them a home, support, and this is how they repay me—with destruction. It’s not just spite—it’s a betrayal I can’t forgive. My daughter’s left without a proper place to live, and I’m left wondering: where did I go wrong raising my son?
