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 differently. Some judge me, some sympathize, but I always say the same thing: no, I’m not ashamed. Because I did too much for my son to let him walk all over me and drag his “family” into my home.
I was a single mother. His father—a lazy, good-for-nothing man—never wanted to be a proper dad. Work? That wasn’t for him. He smoked at home, drank with his mates, belittled me, and lived off my hard-earned money. I put up with it, but one day, I realized: either I survive, or he does. So I left. I threw him out, just like I later did with my son.
I worked triple shifts, barely saw daylight, all so my boy, Ethan, would have everything: food, clothes, warmth, a smile. I bought a two-bed flat in a decent part of town. But I missed the most important thing—time and discipline.
My mum helped, but too much. She turned Ethan into a spoiled brat, 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 Gran? Oh, that he could do. I was the bad mum, the one who made him wash dishes, the one who didn’t understand his “delicate soul.”
By sixteen, Ethan was physically stronger than me, but at the slightest bit of discipline, he’d run crying to his gran. He never did his National Service—Mum “fixed” that. University? Couldn’t be bothered. A job? Even worse. He sat at home, ate my food, drank with his mates, spent my money, and played video games.
Then, out of the blue: “Mum, Emily’s pregnant.” Emily—his eighteen-year-old girlfriend, a fresher with no life experience. “We’re moving in with you,” he said. Not “can we?” Not “please.” Just a demand: “Now there’s two of us, so feed us, house us, and take care of us.”
I sat him down and talked. “Are you planning to work? How will you live? Are you really going to raise a child with no skills, no responsibility?” He just stared at the floor, chewing his lip, silent. And that’s when I knew—enough. I’d raised a man who refused to grow up. I’d given him everything, and he thought that was just how it should be.
The row was loud. I said my piece. I wasn’t obligated to support my useless son and his clueless girlfriend. I wasn’t obliged to fund her fantasy that babies were just cute booties and photo shoots. I’d given him everything—now it was his turn to give something back to the world. Or at least to himself.
I threw them both out. Yes, the pregnant girl too. If they were grown-up enough to make a baby, they were grown-up enough to face the consequences.
Now they’re living with my mum. She’s still playing the saviour, spending her pension pennies on them. I pay her council tax, buy her medicine. My son? Not a penny. And it’s right.
People say, “But he’s your son!” And I say this—being a mother doesn’t mean letting them walk all over you. Being a mother means teaching them. And sometimes, that means being hard.
I don’t regret it. If I hadn’t kicked them out, I’d be stuck with two freeloaders and someone else’s baby. And I’ve got a life too, you know.
My son might understand one day. Maybe not now. Maybe when he’s a father himself. Or maybe never. But my conscience is clear. Because I did everything I could. And when someone tramples your love with muddy boots, you shut the door. Even if it’s your own son.
