I raised my son alone, hoping for his support, but he turned into a burden along with his wife.
I devoted my life to my son, raising him by myself, sacrificing everything so he’d grow up to be a decent man. But instead of gratitude and care, I got indifference, laziness, and betrayal. My son, whom I loved so dearly, and his wife have become a heavy weight on my shoulders—now I’m left with a painful choice: kick them out or keep enduring, losing the last of my strength and hope.
My name is Margaret Wilson, and I live in a small town up in the Yorkshire Dales. My son, Oliver, was a blessing as a child—polite, kind, obedient—no trouble at all. As a single mother, I worked two jobs just to give him a good life. I dreamed he’d grow up to be my support, that he’d help me the way I helped him. But those dreams collapsed like a house of cards once Oliver got older.
After school, he refused further education. “Mum, university’s not for me,” he said and enlisted in the army. I hoped service would make him more responsible, that he’d come back wanting to build a future. Instead, he only let me down. Study? “Can’t be bothered.” Work? “Only if it suits me.” His demands were impossible—high pay, no effort, no stress. He got a warehouse job but quit after a month, saying it “wasn’t his thing.” For half a year, he did nothing. I fed him, bought his clothes, paid for everything on my small pension, barely scraping by myself.
Then Oliver brought home his wife—Chloe, an eighteen-year-old girl who didn’t work and had no plans to. Her arrogance was staggering—she acted like the world owed her everything, though she had no skills or ambition. Of course, they moved in with me. My tiny flat, already cramped, became a battleground. I tried talking to them, pointing out the mess, their idleness, but every word was met with anger. “Mum, mind your own business!” Oliver would snap. Chloe would roll her eyes and agree, as if my efforts were a joke.
One day, I’d had enough. “Sort yourselves out, but not under my roof!” I burst out. “I can’t feed two grown adults on my pension! I can barely manage myself, and you’re both living off me!” My voice shook with hurt and rage. I gave them an ultimatum—pack their things and leave by the month’s end. Oliver stared at me, wounded, while Chloe scoffed, but neither argued. Deep down, though, I’m scared—what if they don’t go? How do I handle my own son?
I’m torn between love for Oliver and my sense of fairness. He’s my blood, my boy, the one I gave up everything for. But now? He doesn’t think of me at all. His indifference, his laziness, his choice of an equally careless wife—it all feels like a slap in the face. Chloe just makes it worse—she doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean, lives off me like I owe her a living. I watch my life drain away, dragging the two of them along, and it breaks my heart.
What do I do? Throw them out—lose my son forever. Let them stay—lose myself instead. Every day, I look at Oliver, searching for the boy I loved, but all I see is a stranger who’s forgotten what gratitude means. My hope for his support is gone, and now I stand at the edge, unsure if I’m strong enough to step forward.
