I asked my son to move out, and he destroyed the flat I wanted to give to his sister.
My son, Edward, has treated me and his younger sister in such a vile way that I still can’t get over it. His betrayal cut deep, shattering the trust I’d held for him all my life. This is a story of broken hopes, a mother’s love, and a family tragedy that’s left us in ruins.
My name is Margaret Thompson, and I’m 62. I live in a small town in the south of England, where I raised two children—Edward and Rebecca. Recently, I asked Edward to vacate the flat he’d been living in with seven family so that Rebecca could move in. But when my daughter and I stepped inside, we were horrified. Edward and his wife, Victoria, hadn’t just left—they’d wrecked the place: stripped the wallpaper, ripped up the laminate flooring, taken the light fixtures, curtains, even the bathtub and toilet. I’m certain this was revenge, and I suspect Victoria put him up to it.
Ten years ago, when Edward married Victoria, I inherited a two-bedroom flat from my aunt. The newlyweds were expecting their first child, and wanting to help, I let them stay there. “Live there for now,” I said. “But it’s not a gift—just temporary until you buy your own place.” The flat was old, untouched for years, as my elderly relative had lived there. Edward and Victoria, with help from her parents, invested in renovations: new windows, wiring, plumbing, and furniture. I was happy they’d made it comfortable, but I always reminded them—this wasn’t their home.
Years passed. Edward and Victoria had two children, settled them into a nearby nursery and school. Life was convenient, and they seemed to forget my warnings. In all that time, they never saved for a mortgage or took any steps toward buying their own place. I stayed quiet, not wanting to disrupt their happiness. But everything changed when Rebecca, my younger daughter, said she wanted to live independently. At 24, fresh out of university and starting her career, she dreamed of her own space, maybe even marriage. I decided it was time to let her have the flat.
When I told Edward they had to leave, he went pale. “You’re kicking us out?” he shouted. Victoria stayed silent, but her glare was icy. “I warned you this wasn’t permanent,” I said firmly. “You’ve had years to save. Rent somewhere else, or move in with Victoria’s parents.” I gave them a month to find a new place, but that month turned into a nightmare. We argued daily—Edward screamed that I was ruining their lives, Victoria accused me of being unfair. I stood my ground, but their hatred broke my heart.
Finally, they left. Rebecca and I went to clean up before her move, but what we found was worse than anything I could’ve imagined. The place was a wreck—bare walls, torn-up floors, missing lights, even the bathtub and toilet gone. Shaking with rage, I called Edward. “How could you do this to me and your sister? This is despicable!” He snapped back, “I wasn’t giving Rebecca a renovated flat! We paid for everything—our money, our effort, our time. Why should she get it for free?”
His words crushed me. Rebecca, standing beside me, was in tears. At 24, she can’t afford repairs, and my pension barely covers my own expenses. The flat’s unlivable, and Edward and Victoria seem to take pleasure in our pain. I gave them shelter, support, and this is how they repaid me—with destruction. It’s more than revenge—it’s a betrayal I can’t forgive. My daughter’s left without a home, and I’ve lost faith in my own son. Now I keep asking myself—where did I go wrong raising him?
