A year and a half ago, our only son, James, got married. His wife, Emily, seemed sweet, quiet, and easygoing—we welcomed her warmly. After the wedding, they moved in with us—my husband and I have a spacious three-bedroom flat right in the heart of London. Life carried on peacefully; we worked, they worked.
But after a few months, Emily began hinting that she wanted a place of their own. Something about needing independence, personal space—you know how it goes. We didn’t argue. We happened to have a vacant one-bedroom flat we’d bought years ago as an investment, bringing in steady rent—money we’d been setting aside for our retirement, since the state pension wouldn’t be enough.
After discussing it, my husband and I agreed: they could live there rent-free for a year. We made the terms clear—twelve months, not a day more. They were overjoyed, swore they’d save up for a mortgage deposit in that time. No kids yet, they said; they wanted to enjoy life first.
We were happy to help. But once they moved in, it was all designer clothes, fancy restaurants, one holiday after another. We gently suggested they save, but they’d just laugh it off. *”We’re young, we deserve this!”*
The year ended. We expected them to move out so we could rent the flat again. Then—like a bolt from the blue—Emily announced she was pregnant. Not just newly pregnant, either—already five months along.
I called James, asked when they planned to leave. His answer was vague: *”Mum, come on… Emily’s pregnant, she shouldn’t be stressed…”* The next day, Emily showed up in tears, furious.
*”You’d really throw us out with a baby on the way? Have you no heart?”*
I nearly snapped.
*”Throw you out where? You’ve got my flat, and your parents’ place—they’ve got three bedrooms! You’re grown adults. We agreed—one year. We’ve lost over twenty thousand pounds in rent, money we planned to give you toward a deposit. Instead, you spent it all on luxuries. And now you’re calling us monsters?”*
I gave them an ultimatum: one more month, then out. They nodded. Two weeks passed—nothing. No viewings, no talk of moving. Just silence, and that pleading look: *”Maybe they’ll change their minds?”*
Now, my husband and I lie awake, wondering what to do. Every conversation circles back to one truth: we should’ve been firmer from the start.
I’m not even angry anymore—just disappointed. Our son won’t stand up for us, just silently backs his wife. Emily avoids me like I’m the enemy. We only wanted to help, to give them a fair start. Instead, we’re trapped—guilt, resentment, and obligations chaining us down.
The worst part? We might never get that flat back. Legally, they’re registered there. Morally, the guilt weighs heavy. Do we even have the right to force them out now, with a baby coming?
Our kindness became our prison. And while we stay silent, they stay put. But I know this: soon, one of us will have to speak.
