That night, I showed my son and his wife the door and took back their keysthe moment had come when I realized: enough is enough.
A week has passed, and I still havent fully recovered. I kicked my own son and his wife out of my home. And you know what? I dont feel guilty. Not one bit. Because this was the last straw. They forced my hand.
It all began six months ago. I came home from work, exhausted, craving a cup of tea and some quiet. And what do I find? My son, William, and his wife, Poppy, in the kitchen. Shes slicing ham, and hes lounging at the table, flipping through a newspaper like its perfectly normal. Hello, Mum! Thought wed pop in!
At first glanceharmless. Im always glad when William visits. But then it hit me: this wasnt a visit. It was an invasion. No warning, no permission asked. They just barged in and stayed.
Turns out, theyd been evicted from their flatsix months behind on rent. Id warned them: dont stretch yourselves too thin! Live within your means. But no. They wanted a city-centre flat, freshly done up, a balcony with a view. And when it all fell apart? Straight to Mums.
Mum, just a week. Promise, well find a place, William assured me.
Like a fool, I believed him. A weekhow bad could it be? Were family. You help when you can. If only Id known what was coming
A week passed. Then another. Then three months. No flat-hunting in sight. Meanwhile, they settled in like royaltyno chores, no contributions, no consideration. And Poppy? Good grief, how wrong I was about her.
She never lifted a finger. Spent her days out with friends or sprawled on the sofa scrolling her phone. Id come home from work, cook dinner, wash up, while she acted like a guest at a spa. Couldnt even rinse her own mug.
Once, I gently suggested they look for extra work. Might ease the strain. The response? We know how to live our lives. Thanks for the concern.
I fed them, paid the billswater, electricity, heating. Not a penny from them. And they still had the nerve to argue if something didnt suit them. Every remark I made turned into a storm.
Then, last week. Late evening. Im in bed, trying to sleep. Next door, the telly blares, William and Poppy laugh loudly over some nonsense. And Ive work in the morning. I went in: Are you two turning in soon? Ive an early start.
Mum, dont be dramatic, William said.
Mrs. Elizabeth, no need for the fuss, Poppy added, not even looking up.
Something inside me snapped.
Pack your things. Youre gone by morning.
What?
Youve heard me. Out. Or Ill start tossing your stuff myself.
As I turned to leave, Poppy muttered something under her breath. That was it. Calmly, I grabbed three large bags and began stuffing their belongings inside. They pleaded, arguedbut too late.
Leave now, or I call the police.
Half an hour later, their bags sat in the hallway. I took the keys. No tears, no apologiesjust anger and blame. But I didnt care. I shut the door. Locked it. And sat down. For the first time in six monthssilence.
Where they went, I dont know. Poppy has parents, plenty of friendssomeones couch will do. Theyll manage.
No regrets. I did right. Because this is my home. My sanctuary. And I wont let anyone trample through it with dirty boots. Not even my own son.
Some lessons must be learned the hard wayeven if it means closing the door on those you love.
