That night, I kicked my son and daughter-in-law out of my house and took their keys. There came a point when I realisedenough was enough.
A week has passed, and I still cant believe what I did. I threw out my own son and his wife from my home. And you know what? I dont feel an ounce of guilt. Because it was the final straw. They forced me into this decision.
It all started six months ago. I came home from work, as usual. Exhausted, all I wanted was a cup of tea and some peace. And what do I find? In the kitchen are my son, James, and his wife, Emily. Shes slicing cheese, hes lounging at the table, reading the paper like nothings amiss, and he says with a grin:
“Hello, Mum! We thought wed pop in for a visit!”
At first glance, harmless enough. Im always happy to see James. But then it hit methis wasnt a visit. It was an invasion. No warning, no asking. They just walked into my house and made themselves at home.
Turns out, theyd been evicted from their flatsix months behind on rent. Id warned them before: dont live beyond your means! Find something modest, cut your cloth accordingly. But no. They wanted central London, a posh renovated flat with a balcony view. And when it all fell apart, they came running to Mums.
“Mum, well just stay a week. I swear, Im already looking for a place,” James insisted.
Like a fool, I believed him. Thought, well, a week wont hurt. Were family. I ought to help. If only Id known what was coming
A week passed. Then another. Then three months. No one was looking for a place. Instead, they settled in like it was theirs. No asking, no helping, no effort. And Emilygood Lord, how wrong I was about her.
She didnt cook, didnt clean. Spent her days out with friends, and when she was home, she was sprawled on the sofa glued to her phone. Id come home from work, make dinner, wash up, and shed act like a guest at a hotel. Couldnt even rinse her own glass.
One day, I carefully suggested they might pick up some extra work? Ease the burden. The reply was instant:
“We know what were doing. Thanks for your concern.”
I was footing the billwater, electricity, gas. Not a penny from them. And still, theyd start rows if something wasnt to their liking. Every word from me sparked an argument.
Then, a week ago. Late at night. Im in bed, trying to sleep. In the living room, the tellys blaring, James and Emily laughing, shouting. I had to be up at six. I marched out and said:
“Are you two going to bed or not? Ive got an early start!”
“Mum, dont start,” James shot back.
“Mrs. Wilson, no need for drama,” Emily added, not even looking up.
That was the last straw.
“Pack your bags. Youre gone by morning.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Out. Or Ill help you pack myself.”
As I turned to leave, Emily let out a snicker. Big mistake. I grabbed three bin bags and started shoving their things inside. They tried to stop me, begged, but it was too late.
“Leave now, or Im calling the police.”
Half an hour later, their bags were in the hall. I took their keys. No tears, no apologies. Just anger and blame. But I didnt care. I shut the door. Turned the lock. And sat down. For the first time in six monthssilence.
Whered they go? No idea. Emilys got parents, friends, always a sofa to crash on. They werent left in the street.
No regrets. I did what I had to. Because this is my home. My castle. And I wont let anyone trample through it with dirty boots. Not even my own son.
Sometimes, saying “no” is the greatest act of love. Because only those who respect themselves can truly respect others.
