A year and a half ago, our only son, James, got married. His wife, Emily, seemed lovely at first—quiet, kind, and easy-going. After the wedding, they moved in with us in our large three-bedroom flat in central London. It was fine at first—we all worked, kept to ourselves.
But after a few months, Emily started dropping hints about wanting their own place. Said she wanted independence, a space of their own. We didn’t argue. We happened to have a small one-bedroom flat we’d bought years ago as an investment. The rent was steady income, something we’d set aside for retirement since you can’t rely on pensions these days.
My husband and I talked it over and agreed: they could live there rent-free for a year—no more. We made that clear from the start. They were thrilled and promised they’d save up for a mortgage deposit in that time. No kids yet, they said—just wanted to enjoy themselves.
We were happy to help. But once they moved in? Designer clothes, fancy restaurants, holidays one after another. We gently suggested saving a bit, but they’d just say, “We’re young—let us live a little!”
The year passed. We assumed they’d move out, and we could rent the flat again. Then—out of nowhere—Emily’s pregnant. Not just early on, either—second trimester already.
I called James, asked when they’d be leaving. He mumbled something about, “Mum, you understand… Emily’s pregnant, she can’t be stressed…” The next day, Emily turned up in tears, shouting, “You’d really throw us out with a baby? Have you no heart?”
I nearly lost it.
“Throw you out where? You’ve got our place, and Emily’s parents have a three-bed house! You’re grown adults. A year ago, we agreed—one year, no more. We’ve lost over thirty grand in rent, money we planned to give you for a deposit. Instead, you blew it all on clothes and dinners. And now you dare call us bad parents?”
I gave them a month. They nodded. Two weeks later—nothing. No flat-hunting, no discussions. Just silent hope we’d change our minds.
My husband and I don’t know what to do. We talk it over every night, but it always circles back to the same thing—we should’ve been firmer a year ago.
I’m not even angry anymore. Just disappointed. James won’t stand up for us—just quietly backs Emily. She avoids me like I’m the villain. We only wanted to help. Give them a start. Instead, we’ve got dependency, resentment, and guilt.
Worst of all? We might not even get the flat back. Legally, they’re registered there. Morally, the guilt’s crushing. Do we even have the right to kick them out now, with a baby on the way?
Our kindness became a trap. And while we stay quiet—they stay put. But I know this silence won’t last forever.
