I kicked out my son and his pregnant girlfriend. And I don’t regret it. Not one bit.
Whenever I share my story, people react differently. Some judge me, others sympathise, but my answer is always the same: no, I’m not ashamed. Because I’ve done too much for my son to let him take advantage of me—let alone drag a whole “family” into it.
I was a single mother. My husband—a lazy, good-for-nothing—never truly stepped up as a father. Work simply wasn’t his thing. He smoked at home, drank with his mates, belittled me, and leeched off me. I put up with it, but one day, I realised: either I survive, or he does. So I left. I kicked him out—just like I did with my son later.
I worked triple shifts, barely saw daylight, just so my son Oliver had everything: food, clothes, warmth, and smiles. I bought a two-bed flat in a decent part of town. But I missed the most important thing—time and discipline.
Mum helped, but she went too far. She spoiled Oliver rotten, raising him to believe the world owed him everything. He couldn’t do a thing—not cook, not clean, not even say “thank you” properly. But complain to Granny? Oh, he could do that. I was the villain for making him wash dishes, for not understanding his “sensitive soul.”
By sixteen, Oliver was stronger than me, but at the slightest bit of firmness, he’d run off to Granny to whinge. He never joined the military—Mum “fixed” that. Studying? Couldn’t be bothered. Work? Out of the question. He sat at home, ate, drank with his mates, burned through my money, and gamed all day.
Then, out of nowhere: “Mum, Emily’s pregnant.” Emily—his eighteen-year-old girlfriend, barely out of sixth form, with nothing to her name. “We’ll live with you,” he said. Not “can we?” or “please,” just a demand: “Now there are two of us, so feed us, house us.”
I sat him down. “Are you planning to work?” I asked. “How will you live? Raise a child with no skills, no responsibility?” He stayed silent. Stared at the floor, chewed his lip—said nothing. That’s when I knew: enough. I’d raised a man who never grew up. I gave him everything, and he assumed it was his right.
The fight was loud. I laid it all out. I wasn’t obligated to support my son’s reckless choices or his clueless girlfriend, who seemed to think babies were just pink booties and photoshoots. I gave him everything—now it was his turn to give back.
I threw them both out. Yes, the pregnant girl too. If they were adult enough to make a baby, they could be adult enough to face the consequences.
Now they live with my mother. She keeps playing the saint, spending her pension on them. I still pay her bills, buy her medicine. But Oliver? Not a penny. And rightly so.
Some say, “But he’s your son!” Here’s my reply: being a mother doesn’t mean letting them walk all over you. Being a mother means teaching them—sometimes the hard way.
I don’t regret it. If I hadn’t kicked them out, I’d be stuck with two slackers and someone else’s baby. And I’ve got a life too, you know.
Maybe Oliver will understand one day—maybe when he’s a father himself. Or maybe never. But my conscience is clear. I did all I could. And when someone tramples your love underfoot, you shut the door. Even if it’s your own child.
