I raised my son alone, hoping for his support, but he and his wife became nothing but a burden.
I dedicated my life to my son, raising him single-handedly, sacrificing everything so he’d grow into a decent man. Yet instead of gratitude and care, all I got was indifference, laziness, and betrayal. My own son, the boy I loved more than anything, and his wife have become a weight too heavy to bear. Now I’m left with a painful choice—kick them out or keep enduring, watching my strength and hope slip away.
My name is Margaret Hale, and I live in a small town up in Yorkshire. My son, Oliver, was a blessing in his early years—polite, kind, obedient. Never gave me any trouble. As a single mother, I worked two jobs just to give him a proper life. I dreamed he’d grow up to be my support, just as I’d supported him. But those dreams crumbled like a house of cards the moment Oliver grew up.
After school, he refused further education. “Uni’s not for me, Mum,” he said, and off he went to join the army. I hoped service would teach him responsibility, that he’d come back ready to build a future. Instead, he disappointed me more. Study? “Can’t be bothered.” Work? “Only if it suits me.” His demands were ridiculous—high pay, no effort, no stress. He got a job at a warehouse but quit after a month. “Not my thing,” he claimed. Then came six months of him lazing about the house, doing nothing. I fed him, bought his clothes, paid his way on my measly pension, barely scraping by myself.
Then Oliver brought home a wife—Emily, an eighteen-year-old girl who’d never held a job and had no intention to. Her arrogance was astounding, acting like the world owed her something despite having neither education nor ambition. Naturally, they moved in with me. My already cramped terrace house turned into a battleground. I tried talking to them—about the mess, their idleness—but every word was met with irritation. “We’ll sort ourselves, Mum,” Oliver would snap. Emily just rolled her eyes, as if my concern was a joke.
One day, I cracked. “Sort yourselves out somewhere else, then!” I snapped, voice shaking. “I can’t feed you both on my pension! I’ve got nothing left, and you’re just leeching off me!” I gave them till the end of the month to pack up and leave. Oliver stared at me, hurt, while Emily scoffed. Neither argued. But deep down, I’m terrified—what if they refuse to go? How can I turn my own son away?
I’m torn between love for Oliver and the need for fairness. He’s my blood, my boy, the one I gave up everything for. Yet now, he doesn’t spare a thought for me. His indifference, his laziness, his choice of an equally useless wife—it all feels like a slap in the face. Emily only makes it worse—never lifts a finger, lives off me as if it’s her right. I watch my life drain away, carrying the two of them, and it breaks my heart.
What do I do? Throw them out, and I lose my son forever. Let them stay, and I lose myself. Every day, I look at Oliver, searching for the boy I loved, but all I see is a stranger who’s forgotten what gratitude means. My hopes for his support are gone, and now I stand at the edge, unsure if I can take the step.
