I kicked out my son and his pregnant girlfriend. And I don’t regret it. Not one bit.
When I tell my story, reactions vary. Some judge, some pity, but my answer is always the same: No, I’m not ashamed. I’ve done too much for my son to let him ride my back and drag a whole family along for the ride.
I raised him alone. His father—good for nothing, a lazy sod—never bothered being a proper dad. Work? Not his style. He smoked indoors, drank with his mates, belittled me, and lived off my hard work. I put up with it until I realised—either I survive, or he does. So I threw him out, just like I did later with my son.
I worked triple shifts, barely saw daylight, all so that my boy, Oliver, had everything: food, clothes, warmth, and smiles. I even bought a two-bed flat in a decent part of London. But I missed one thing—time and discipline.
My mum helped—too much, in fact. She coddled Ollie into thinking the world owed him. He couldn’t do a thing—no cooking, no cleaning, not even a simple *thank you*. But complain to Grandma? Oh, he was brilliant at that. I was the wicked mum, making him wash dishes, crushing his delicate soul.
By sixteen, Oliver was stronger than me, but at the first hint of discipline, off he ran to Granny. No surprise—he dodged National Service (thanks to her), had no interest in studying, and work? Out of the question. He sat around, ate, drank with mates, burned through my money, and gamed all night.
Then, like a bolt from the blue: *Mum, Emily’s pregnant*. Emily—his eighteen-year-old uni fresher girlfriend, who hadn’t a clue about life. *We’re moving in with you*, he announced. No *please*, no *thank you*, just a flat demand: *Now there’s two of us, so feed us, house us, and foot the bill.*
I sat him down. *Do you even plan to work? How will you provide? Raise a child with no skills, no responsibility?* He just stared at the floor, chewed his lip, and said nothing. That’s when it hit me—I’d raised a boy who’d never grown up. I’d given him everything, and he thought that’s how life worked.
The row was spectacular. I laid it all out. I wasn’t obligated to bankroll my grown son’s irresponsible choices, nor his girlfriend, who seemed to think babies were about cute booties and photo shoots. I’d given him all I had—now it was his turn to give *something* back.
So I kicked them both out. Yes, pregnant Emily too. If they were grown enough to make a baby, they could be grown enough to face the consequences.
Now, they’re living with my mum. She’s still playing saviour, bleeding her pension dry. I cover her bills, buy her medicine, but Oliver? Not a penny. And good riddance.
Plenty tut and say, *But he’s your son!* And I say—being a mother isn’t letting them walk all over you. It’s teaching them, even when it hurts.
I don’t regret it. If I hadn’t thrown them out, I’d be stuck with two freeloaders and a crying baby. And, believe it or not, I’ve got a life too.
Maybe Ollie will understand one day. Maybe when he’s a father himself. Or maybe never. But my conscience is clear. I did everything I could—and when someone tramples your love, you shut the door. Even if it’s your own son.
