That night, I took my son and daughter-in-laws keys and showed them the door. The moment had comeId had enough.
A week has passed, and I still cant quite believe what I did. I threw my own son and his wife out of my house. And you know what? I dont feel an ounce of guilt. Because enough was enough. They pushed me to it.
It all started six months ago. I came home from work, exhausted, just wanting a cup of tea and some quiet. And what do I find? My son, James, and his wife, Sophie, in the kitchen. Shes slicing cheese, hes lounging at the table reading the paper, and he flashes me a grin:
“Hi, Mum! Thought wed pop by for a visit!”
At first, it seemed harmless. Im always happy to see James. But then it hit methis wasnt a visit. It was an invasion. No warning, no asking. They just moved in.
Turns out theyd been evicted from their flat in Londonsix months behind on rent. Id warned them: live within your means! Find somewhere modest, cut back. But no. They wanted a posh postcode, a refurbished flat, a balcony with a view. When it all fell apart, they ran straight to Mums.
“Mum, well only stay a week. Swear down, Im already flat-hunting,” James insisted.
Like a fool, I believed him. One week, I thought. Family helps family. If only Id known
A week became two. Then three months. No flat-hunting. Just them treating my home like their own. No asking, no helping, no respect. And Sophiegood grief, how wrong I was about her.
She never cooked, never cleaned. Spent her days with mates or glued to her phone on the sofa. Id come home from work, make dinner, wash uplike she was some hotel guest. Couldnt even rinse her own mug.
One day, I gently suggested they pick up extra work. Might ease things. The response? Instant frost.
“Weve got it handled. Thanks for the concern.”
I covered everythingwater, electric, gas. Not a penny from them. And if I dared complain? World War Three.
Then, last week. Late at night. Im in bed, desperate for sleep. The tellys blaring in the living room, James and Sophie laughing, shouting. I had to be up at six. I marched out.
“Are you two going to sleep or what? Some of us have work!”
“Mum, dont start,” James muttered.
“Mrs. Thompson, no need for drama,” Sophie added, not even glancing up.
That was it.
“Pack your bags. Youre gone by morning.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Out. Or Ill pack for you.”
When I turned to leave, Sophie let out a snicker. Big mistake. I grabbed three bin bags and started shoving their things inside. They begged, they protestedtoo late.
“Leave now, or I call the police.”
Half an hour later, their bags were in the hall. I took their keys. No tears, just anger and blame. But I didnt care. I shut the door. Turned the lock. Sat down. For the first time in six monthssilence.
Whered they go? No idea. Sophies got parents, friends, someones sofa to crash on. They werent homeless.
I dont regret it. I did what had to be done. Because this is my home. My castle. And I wont let anyone trample over itnot even my own son.
Sometimes, “no” is the greatest act of love. Because only those who respect themselves can truly respect others.
