That night, I took my son and his wife out of my house and kept their keys. The moment had comeId had enough.
A week has passed, and I still cant quite believe what I did. I threw my own son and his wife out of my home. And do you know what? I dont feel an ounce of guilt. Because enough was enough. They pushed me to it.
It all began six months ago. I came home from work, as usual. Tired, all I wanted was a cup of tea and some peace. And what do I find? My son, James, and his wife, Eleanor, in the kitchen. Shes slicing cheese, hes at the table reading the paper like nothings wrong, and he says with a smile:
“Hello, Mum! Thought wed pop in for a visit!”
At first glance, nothing unusual. Im always happy to see James. But then I realisedthis wasnt a visit. It was a move. No warning, no asking. They just walked in and settled down.
Turns out, theyd been evicted from their rented flatsix months behind on payments. Id warned them before: live within your means! Find something modest, cut back. But no. They wanted a posh flat in central London, freshly done up, balcony with a view. And when it all fell apart, they ran straight to Mums.
“Mum, well only stay a week. Promise, Im already looking for a place,” James insisted.
Foolishly, I believed him. Thought: well, a week wont hurt. Were family. I should help. If only Id known how it would end
A week passed. Then another. Then three months. No one was house-hunting. Instead, they made themselves at home. No asking, no helping, no courtesy. And Eleanorgoodness, how wrong I was about her.
She never cooked, never cleaned. Spent her days with friends, and when she was home, she lounged on the sofa scrolling through her phone. Id come back from work, make dinner, wash up, and shed act like a guest at a hotel. Couldnt even rinse her own mug.
One day, I gently suggested they might take on some extra work? Just to ease things. The reply was instant:
“Weve got it handled. Thanks for the concern.”
I was supporting them, paying the billswater, electric, gas. They didnt contribute a penny. And if something wasnt to their liking, theyd pick a fight. Every word from me became a storm.
Then, a week ago. Late at night. Im in bed, trying to sleep. The tellys blaring in the living room, James and Eleanor laughing, talking loudly. I had to be up at six. I marched out and said:
“Are you two going to sleep or not? Ive work in the morning!”
“Mum, dont start,” James muttered.
“Mrs. Thompson, no need for drama,” Eleanor added, not even looking up.
That was the last straw.
“Pack your things. Youre gone by morning.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Out. Or Ill help you pack myself.”
As I turned to leave, Eleanor let out a scoff. Big mistake. I grabbed three bin bags and started stuffing their things inside. They begged, they pleaded, but it was too late.
“Leave now, or Ill call the police.”
Half an hour later, their bags were in the hall. I took their keys. No tears, no remorse. Just anger and blame. But I didnt care. I shut the door. Turned the lock. And sat down. For the first time in six monthssilence.
Where did they go? No idea. Eleanors got parents, friends, surely someones sofa to crash on. They werent left homeless.
No regrets. I did what I had to. Because this is my home. My castle. And I wont let anyone trample over it with muddy boots. Not even my own son.
Sometimes, saying “no” is the greatest act of love. Because only those who respect themselves can truly respect others.
