I kicked out my son and his pregnant girlfriend. And I don’t regret it. Not one bit.
When I tell my story, people react differently. Some judge, some sympathize, but my answer is always the same: no, I’m not ashamed. Because I sacrificed too much for my son to let him take advantage of me and bring along his own “family” to leech off me.
I was a single mother. My husband—a lazy good-for-nothing—never stepped up to be a proper father. Work? That wasn’t for him. He smoked indoors, drank with his mates, belittled me, and lived off my hard-earned money. I put up with it until I realized: either I survive, or he stays. So I left. I threw him out, just like I later did with my son.
I worked triple shifts, barely saw daylight, all to make sure my boy, Liam, had everything: food, clothes, warmth, smiles. 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 Liam, raising him to believe the world owed him. He couldn’t do a thing—couldn’t cook, couldn’t clean, couldn’t even say a proper “thank you.” But complain to Grandma? Oh, he could do that. I was the villain—the bad mum who made him wash dishes, who didn’t understand his “delicate soul.”
By sixteen, Liam was bigger and stronger than me, but at the slightest strict word, he’d run to my mother to whine. Of course, he never did National Service—Granny “fixed” that. University? No interest. A job? Even less. He stayed home, ate, drank with friends, burned through my money, and gamed all day.
Then, like a bolt from 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 declared. No “please,” no “thank you,” no “we appreciate it.” Just a demand: “Now there’s two of us, so feed us, house us, look after us.”
I sat him down. “Are you planning to work?” I asked. “How will you support yourselves? Raise a child with no skills, no responsibility?” He stayed silent. Stared at the floor, chewed his lip, said nothing. 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 life worked.
The argument was explosive. I laid it all out. I wasn’t obligated to support my son’s reckless choices or his girlfriend, who seemed to think babies meant cute booties and Instagram shoots. I’d given him everything; now it was his turn to give something back—to the world, or at least 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 mother. She still plays the saviour, spending her pension on them, penny by penny. I pay her bills, buy her medicine. My son? Not a dime. And that’s how it should be.
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. Sometimes the hard way.
I don’t regret it. If I hadn’t thrown them out, I’d be stuck with two freeloaders—plus someone else’s baby. And I have a life too, you know.
One day, Liam might understand. Maybe not now. Maybe when he’s a father himself. Or maybe never. But my conscience is clear. Because I did all I could. And when someone tramples your love underfoot—you shut the door. Even if it’s your own child.
Love doesn’t mean letting them drain you dry. Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is walk away.
