I kicked out my son and his pregnant girlfriend. And I don’t regret it. Not one bit.
When I share my story, people react in different ways. Some judge me, some sympathize, but I always say the same thing: no, I’m not ashamed. Because I’ve done far too much for my son to let him take advantage of me—let alone drag a whole “family” along for the ride.
I was a single mother. His father—a lazy good-for-nothing—never quite stepped up to the role. Work? That wasn’t his style. He smoked at home, drank with his mates, belittled me, and lived off my back. I put up with it, but eventually, I realised: either I survive, or he does. So I threw him out. Just like I did with my son later.
I worked triple shifts, barely saw daylight, all so my boy Oliver had everything: food, clothes, warmth, a smile. I even bought a two-bed flat in a decent part of London. But I missed the most important thing—time and discipline.
My mum helped, but too much. She turned Ollie into a little victim, a boy who thought the world owed him. He couldn’t do a thing—couldn’t cook, couldn’t clean, couldn’t even say “thank you” properly. But complain to Granny? Oh, that he could do. I was the wicked mum who made him wash up, who didn’t understand his “sensitive soul.”
By sixteen, Oliver was stronger than me, yet at the slightest scolding, he’d sprint to his gran’s to whinge. Military service? Not a chance—Mum “got him out of it.” Uni? Couldn’t be bothered. Work? Don’t be ridiculous. He loafed at home, ate my food, drank with his mates, burned through my money, and gamed all night.
Then, out of the blue: “Mum, Poppy’s pregnant.” Poppy—his eighteen-year-old girlfriend, a uni fresher with zero life experience. “We’re moving in with you,” he said. No “please,” no “thank you,” just a flat declaration: “There’s two of us now—feed us, house us, foot the bill.”
I sat him down for a chat. “Are you planning to work?” I asked. “How will you live? Raise a child with no job, no responsibility?” Silence. He stared at the floor, chewed his lip, and said nothing. And that’s when it hit me—enough. I’d raised a man who refused to grow up. I’d given him everything, and he just expected it.
The fallout was spectacular. I laid it all out. I wasn’t obliged to support my son’s immature little family. Or his girl, who seemed to think babies were just Instagram props and tiny booties. I’d given him all I had—now it was his turn to give something back. Even if only to himself.
I kicked them both out. Yes, even the pregnant girl. If they were grown enough to make a baby, they could be grown enough to face the consequences.
Now they live with my mum. She’s still playing the saint, bleeding her pension dry to keep them afloat. I cover her bills, buy her medicine. But my son? Not a penny. And rightly so.
People say, “But he’s your child!” And I say this—being a mother doesn’t mean letting them walk all over you. Being a mother means teaching them. Sometimes—harshly.
I don’t regret it. Because if I hadn’t kicked them out, I’d be stuck with two freeloaders and someone else’s baby. And—shockingly—I have a life too.
Oliver might understand one day. Maybe when he’s a dad himself. Or maybe never. But my conscience is clear. Because I did everything I could. And when someone tramples your love with dirty boots, you shut the door—even if it’s your own son.
