A year and a half ago, our only son, James, got married. We welcomed his wife, Emily, with open arms—she seemed sweet, quiet, and easygoing. After the wedding, they moved in with us—my husband and I have a spacious three-bedroom flat in the heart of London. Life carried on peacefully: we worked, and so did they.
But a few months in, Emily began dropping hints about wanting their own place. Something about needing independence, their own space, and so on. We didn’t argue. We had a spare one-bedroom flat we’d bought years ago as an investment, bringing in steady rental income—money we’d set aside for retirement, knowing our pensions wouldn’t be enough.
After a long discussion, my husband and I agreed: they could live there rent-free for exactly one year. We made the terms clear—no extensions. They were overjoyed and promised to save for a mortgage deposit within the year. No children yet, they said—they wanted to focus on themselves.
We were glad to help. But once they moved in, the spending began—designer clothes, dining out every other night, one holiday after another. We gently suggested saving, but they’d just say, “We’re young—let us enjoy life!”
The year passed. We expected them to move out so we could rent the flat again. Then, out of the blue—Emily was pregnant. Not just newly expecting, either—already in her second trimester.
I called James, asking when they planned to leave. His reply was vague: “Mum, come on… Emily’s pregnant, she can’t be stressed…” The next day, Emily showed up in tears, shouting, “Are you seriously kicking us out with a baby? Have you no heart?”
I nearly lost my temper. “Kicking you out? You have this flat and Emily’s parents’ three-bedroom house! You’re adults. We agreed—one year, no more. We’ve lost over thirty thousand pounds in rent—money we’d planned to give you for your deposit. Instead, you spent it all on clothes, meals out, and trips. And now you’re calling us the bad guys?”
I gave them a month’s ultimatum. They nodded. Two weeks later, nothing’s changed. No viewings, no talk of moving—just silent hope we’ll back down.
My husband and I stay up late, trying to figure out what to do, but it always comes back to one thing: we should’ve been firmer from the start.
I’m not even angry anymore—just disappointed. James won’t stand up for us, quietly siding with his wife instead. Emily avoids me like I’m the enemy. We only wanted to help—give them a start, support them. Instead, we’ve got resentment, blame, and a mess we can’t undo.
Worst of all, we’re not even sure we can get the flat back. Legally, they’re registered there. Morally, guilt weighs heavy. Do we have the right to push them out now, with a baby on the way?
Our kindness has turned into a trap. While we stay silent, they stay put. But this silence won’t last forever.
Sometimes, helping too much teaches others how to take too much.
