**Diary Entry**
When I share my story, people react in different ways. Some judge me, others sympathise, but my answer is always the same: no, I don’t regret it. Because I’ve done too much for my son to let him take advantage of me—and worse, drag a whole “family” along with him.
I was a single mother. His father, a lazy good-for-nothing, never lifted a finger to be a proper dad. Work? Not for him. He smoked indoors, drank with his mates, belittled me, and mooched off me for years. I put up with it—until I realised it was either him or me. So I left. I kicked him out, just as I later did with my son.
I worked triple shifts, barely saw daylight, all so my son Oliver would have 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 coddled Oliver, raised him to believe the world owed him something. He couldn’t do a thing—couldn’t cook, clean, or even say “thank you” properly. But complain to Granny? Oh, he was an expert. *I’m a terrible mother for making him wash dishes. I don’t understand his delicate soul.*
By sixteen, Oliver was stronger than me, yet at the slightest reprimand, he’d run to Granny. No chance he’d join the Army—Mum “sorted” that. University? No interest. Work? Out of the question. He lounged at home, ate my food, drank with his mates, burned through my money, and gamed all night.
Then, out of nowhere: *”Mum, Emily’s pregnant.”* Emily—his eighteen-year-old girlfriend, barely started uni, with no prospects. *”We’re moving in with you,”* he said. No *”please,”* no *”thank you.”* Just a demand: *”Now there are two of us—feed us, house us, and deal with it.”*
I sat him down. *”Will you work? How will you live? Raise a child with no skills, no responsibility?”* Silence. He stared at the floor, chewing his lip. And in that moment, I knew—enough. I’d raised a man who never grew up. I gave him everything, and he thought it was his due.
The row was loud. I laid it bare: I won’t bankroll my son’s immature “family.” I won’t support a girl who thinks babies are about cute booties and Instagram snaps. I gave him all I had—now it’s his turn to give back.
I kicked them both out. Yes, even the pregnant girl. If they’re grown enough to have a child, they’re grown enough to face the consequences.
Now they’re with my mother. She plays the martyr, spends her pension on them. I pay her bills, buy her meds. For my son? Not a penny. And rightly so.
People say, *”But he’s your son!”* I say this: being a mother doesn’t mean letting them walk all over you. It means teaching them—sometimes harshly.
I don’t regret it. If I hadn’t thrown them out, I’d be stuck with two layabouts and a screaming baby. And believe me, I’ve got my own life to live.
Maybe Oliver will understand one day. Maybe when he’s a father himself. Or maybe never. But my conscience is clear. I did all I could. And when someone tramples your love with muddy boots, you shut the door—even if it’s your own child.
