“My Wife’s Son Stole My Room”
“Have you lost your mind, Darren? That’s my room!” Graham Wilson stood in the doorway, keys clutched in his fist, staring in disbelief at the scene before him.
“Was your room, Uncle Graham,” the lad didn’t even glance up from his phone, sprawled across the sofa. “Now it’s mine. Mum said so.”
“What do you mean, ‘Mum said so’?!” Graham exploded. “I’m not your uncle! And where’s my bed? Where are my things?”
Darren shrugged, eyes glued to his screen. “Bed’s out on the balcony, stuff’s in boxes. Mum says there’s plenty of space for you out there.”
Graham felt the ground drop out from under him. He’d lived in this flat for twenty years—that room was his sanctuary, his fortress. Now some eighteen-year-old upstart was acting like he owned the place.
“Margaret!” he bellowed, storming toward the kitchen. “Margaret, get in here right now!”
His wife emerged, wiping her hands on her apron, not a trace of guilt on her face. “What’s all this shouting, Graham? What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter?!” Graham was beside himself. “Your son’s taken over my room! My things are out on the balcony! What kind of nonsense is this?”
“Graham, calm down,” Margaret spoke softly, but her tone was firm. “Darren’s started uni, he needs space to study. You can sleep on the balcony—it’s cosy, I set it up myself.”
“On the balcony?!” Graham couldn’t believe his ears. “Have you gone mad, Maggie? This is my flat! I’m the one on the lease, I live here!”
“Our flat,” she corrected. “And Darren lives here now too. Permanently.”
Graham sank onto a chair. When he’d married Margaret two years ago, she’d mentioned she had a son who lived with his father. He’d visit occasionally, kept to himself—no real trouble. Graham had even hoped they might get along.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked wearily.
“What was there to say? Darren’s grown, he needs his own room. You’ll manage.”
“Manage…” Graham repeated. “Maggie, I work shifts—I need proper sleep. The balcony’s freezing in winter, boiling in summer.”
“You’ll get used to it. Darren’s a good lad, he won’t disturb you.”
Graham looked at his wife. Two years ago, she’d been his lifeline. Years alone after his first wife took their daughter to another city, Margaret had been a breath of fresh air—a kind, sharp-witted accountant with a brilliant roast. They’d met in the park, her feeding sparrows while he read the paper.
“I’ve got a son,” she’d said back then. “Lives with his dad, but visits sometimes.”
“No problem,” Graham had replied. “I like kids.”
And he had. His own daughter, Emily, he hardly ever saw—ex-wife made sure of that. Darren had seemed alright—polite, quiet, no real bother.
“Look, Maggie,” Graham tried again, keeping his voice steady. “Maybe we rearrange the lounge? Get Darren a sofa bed, keep my room as it is?”
“No,” she shook her head. “Darren needs quiet for his studies. You just watch telly.”
“‘Just watch telly’…” Something inside Graham snapped. “Margaret, I come home shattered after night shifts—I need decent rest!”
“You’re being selfish, Graham. Only thinking of yourself. I have a son to care for.”
Graham got up and trudged to the balcony. Sure enough, his bed was there, boxes stacked beside it. The balcony was glazed, but dampness clung to the air. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
That evening, Darren came out for dinner. Graham sat at the table, nursing a cuppa.
“Listen, Darren,” he began, keeping it civil. “Let’s talk, man to man. Maybe we can figure something out?”
“What’s to figure?” Darren grabbed yoghurt from the fridge. “I’ve got my room, you’ve got yours. Fair’s fair.”
“My ‘room’ is a glorified greenhouse,” Graham pointed out.
“So? More space for you and Mum.”
“Darren, I get uni’s important, but you can’t just boot people around. We could’ve talked this through.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Darren smirked. “You’re not family. Mum’s mum—you’re just her husband. For now.”
“For now?” Graham stiffened.
“You think this is forever?” Darren shrugged. “Mum’s still got it. Might upgrade any day.”
Graham’s face burned, but he bit his tongue. No use causing a scene, no matter how much he wanted to.
“Darren, I respect your mum and you. But this is my flat.”
“Get real,” Darren yawned. “Not yours anymore. Mum says after marriage, everything’s shared.”
“We signed the papers when this was my place.”
“Law’s the law.”
Graham gave up. The lad was set in his ways, no budging him.
The next day, he tried Margaret again.
“Margaret, I’m serious. The balcony’s unbearable. Can’t we try something else?”
“Enough whinging,” she didn’t look up from stirring soup. “Darren’s got studying. You’re a grown man—you’ll cope.”
“Cope?” Graham snapped. “Margaret, I work at the power station—one slip from exhaustion, people could die.”
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a balcony.”
“It’s damp! Freezing! Why should I be exiled in my own home?”
Margaret turned, and Graham saw a coldness he’d never noticed before.
“Because I have a son. He comes first.”
“Margaret…”
“That’s final. Don’t like it? Leave.”
Graham stared. Where was the woman who’d made him Sunday roasts and asked about his day? Who rubbed his shoulders after long shifts and whispered she loved him?
That night, Darren blasted music again while Graham tried sleeping post-shift.
“Turn that off!” he banged on the door.
“Can’t hear you!” Darren shouted back.
“People are trying to sleep!”
The door swung open. Darren leered at him.
“Go nap in the kitchen then. Quieter there.”
“I can’t sleep in the kitchen!” Graham exploded.
“Get your own flat then,” Darren shrugged. “This one’s taken.”
“You little—” Graham lunged—but Darren slammed the door and locked it.
“Mum!” he yelled. “Your hubby’s trying to thump me!”
Margaret came running.
“Graham! What’s got into you? He’s just a boy!”
“A boy? Margaret, he’s six foot and shaving! And he’s commandeered my room!”
“He’s at uni, he needs—”
“He’s not studying! He’s glued to that Xbox!”
“Not your concern,” she said icily. “If you’re unhappy, leave.”
“This is my flat,” Graham said quietly.
“Our flat. And my son lives here now.”
Graham knew he’d lost. He sank onto the sofa, eyes closed. How had he misjudged her so badly?
Next day, he found the bedroom lock changed. Darren was inside, gaming away.
“Why the new lock?” Graham asked Margaret.
“Darren asked. Says you barge in.”
“It was my room.”
“Not anymore.”
Graham sat at the kitchen table in silence. Then he stood, walked to the balcony, and started packing.
“What are you doing?” Margaret asked.
“Leaving.”
“Don’t be daft. It’s just a balcony.”
“I won’t sleep on a balcony in my own home,” he said calmly. “Seems it’s not mine anymore.”
“Where will you go?”
“My mum’s. She’s got space.”
“And the flat?”
“You’ve already decided it’s yours.”
Margaret said nothing. Darren poked his head out.
“Finally,” he said. “About time.”
Graham looked at him, then at Margaret. She turned away.
“Right then,” he said softly. “Best of luck.”
He grabbed his bags and headed for the door. On the threshold, he paused.
“Margaret… I did love you.”
“And I loved you,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“Loved,” Graham repeated. “Now it’s just him.”
“Children come first,” she said.
“Even before family?”
“Family’s me and Darren. You were… temporary.”
Graham nodded and stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him, the lock turning.
On the landing, it hit him—how fast life unravels. Yesterday, he had a home,He took one last look at the flat he’d called home for twenty years, then walked away, realising sometimes love means knowing when to let go.
