That night, I took my son and daughter-in-laws keys and showed them the door. The moment had comeenough was 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 it was the last straw. They forced my hand.
It all began 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 sitting at the table reading the paper like nothings amiss, and he flashes me a grin:
“Hello, Mum! We thought wed pop in for a visit!”
At first glance, harmless. Im always happy to see James. But then I realisedthis wasnt a visit. It was a takeover. No warning, no asking. They just marched into my home and settled in.
Turns out theyd been evicted from their rented flatsix months of unpaid rent. Id warned them before: dont live beyond your means! Find something modest, cut your cloth accordingly. But no. They wanted a posh flat in central London, freshly done up, balcony with a view. And when the whole thing collapsed, they came running to Mums.
“Mum, well only stay a week. Promise, Im already flat-hunting,” 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 hunting for flats. Instead, they acted like the house was theirs. No asking, no helping, no pitching in. 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 lounged on the sofa scrolling through 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 mug.
One day, I gently suggested they might pick up some extra work. Itd make things easier. The reply was instant:
“We know what were doing. Thanks for your concern.”
I was footing the billswater, electricity, gas. They didnt contribute a penny. And still, theyd kick up a fuss if something wasnt to their liking. Every word from me sparked a row.
Then, a week ago. Late at night. I was in bed, unable to sleep. The telly blared in the living room, James and Emily laughing and shouting. I had to be up at six. I marched out and said:
“Are you two going to bed or not? Ive work in the morning!”
“Mum, dont start,” James shot back.
“Mrs. Thompson, no need for drama,” Emily added, not even looking at me.
That was the final 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 Ill call 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.
Where did they go? I dont know. Emilys got parents, friendssomeones sofa to crash on. They werent left on the street.
I dont regret it. I did what I had to. Because this is my home. My castle. And I wont let anyone trample over it with muddy 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.
