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? Not a shred of guilt gnaws at me. Because it was the final straw. They left me no choice.
It all began six months ago. I came home from work, as usual. Exhausted, all I wanted was a cuppa and some peace. And what do I find? My son, Oliver, and his wife, Gemma, in the kitchen. Shes slicing cheese, hes lounging at the table, skimming the paper as if it were perfectly ordinary, and he says with a grin:
“Hello, Mum! Thought wed pop in for a visit!”
At first, nothing seemed amiss. Im always glad to see Oliver. But then it hit methis wasnt a visit. It was an invasion. No warning, no asking. They just marched in and made themselves at home.
Turns out theyd been evicted from their flatsix months behind on rent. Id warned them before: live within your means! Find something modest, cut your cloth accordingly. But no. They had to have a flashy place in the heart of London, a refurbished flat with a balcony view. And when it all came crashing down, they fled straight to Mums.
“Mum, well only stay a week. Swear down, Im already flat-hunting,” Oliver insisted.
Like a fool, I believed him. Thought, well, a week wont hurt. Were family. Got to help. If only Id known what was coming
A week passed. Then another. Then three months. No flat-hunting. Instead, they sank in like they owned the place. No asking, no helping, no respect. And Gemmaoh, how wrong Id been about her.
She never cooked, never cleaned. Spent her days out with mates or sprawled on the sofa scrolling her phone. Id come home from work, make dinner, wash up, and there shed beacting like a pampered guest. Couldnt even rinse her own mug.
One day, I suggested gently: maybe pick up some extra work? Might ease things. The reply was instant:
“We know what were doing. Thanks for the concern.”
I was footing the billswater, gas, electric. Not a penny from them. And still, theyd kick up a fuss if a single thing wasnt to their liking. Every word I said sparked a row.
Then, a week ago. Late at night. Im in bed, trying to sleep. From the living room, the telly blares, Oliver and Gemma laughing, shouting. I had to be up at six. I stormed out and snapped:
“Are you two turning in or not? Some of us have work in the morning!”
“Mum, dont start,” Oliver shot back.
“Mrs. Whitmore, no need for theatrics,” Gemma added, not even glancing my way.
That did it.
“Pack your bags. Youre gone by morning.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Out. Or Ill help you pack myself.”
As I turned to leave, Gemma let out a snicker. Big mistake. I grabbed three bin bags and started shoving their things inside. They begged, they protested, but the time for that was long past.
“Leave now, or I call the police.”
Half an hour later, their suitcases were in the hall. I took their keys. No tears, no remorsejust scowls and insults. 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? No idea. Gemmas got parents, friends, always some sofa to crash on. They werent left on the street.
No regrets. I did what had to be done. Because this is my house. My castle. And I wont let anyone trample through it with muddy boots. Not even my own son.
Sometimes, “no” is the purest form of love. Because only those who respect themselves can truly respect others.
