That night, I took my son and daughter-in-laws keys and showed them the doorthe moment had come when I realised: enough is enough.
A week has passed, and I still cant believe what I did. I kicked my own son and his wife out of my house. And you know what? I dont feel an ounce of guilt. Because it was the final straw. They forced my hand.
It all started six months ago. I came home from work, as usual. Exhausted, all I wanted was a cup of tea and some quiet. And what do I find? My son, Oliver, and his wife, Imogen, in the kitchen. Shes slicing cheese, hes lounging at the table reading the paper like its nothing, and he flashes a grin:
“Hello, Mum! Thought wed pop round for a visit!”
At first glance, harmless enough. Im always glad to see Oliver. But then it hit methis wasnt a visit. It was an invasion. No warning, no asking. Theyd marched into my house and made themselves at home.
Turns out theyd been evicted from their flatsix months behind on rent. Id warned them: live within your means! Find somewhere modest, cut your cloth accordingly. But no. They wanted a swanky postcode, a refurbished flat, a balcony with a view. And when it all came crashing down, they bolted straight to Mums.
“Mum, well only stay a week. Swear down, Im already flat-hunting,” Oliver insisted.
Like a fool, I believed him. Thought: well, a week wont hurt. Were family. Got to help. If only Id known
A week passed. Then another. Then three months. No flat-hunting. Instead, they settled in like they owned the place. No asking, no helping, no lifting a finger. And Imogen God, I misjudged her.
She didnt cook, didnt clean. Spent her days with mates, and when she was home, it was sprawled on the sofa with her phone. Id come in from work, make dinner, wash up, and herlike some hotel guest. Couldnt even rinse her own mug.
One day, I suggested gently: maybe pick up some extra work? Ease the strain. The reply was instant:
“We know what were doing. Thanks for the concern.”
I was funding them, covering billswater, electric, gas. Not a penny from them. And still, theyd kick off if something wasnt to their liking. Every word from me sparked a row.
Then, a week ago. Late at night. Im in bed, wide awake. From the living room, the telly blaring, Oliver and Imogen laughing, shouting. I had to be up at six. I stormed in:
“Are you two going to sleep, or what? Ive got work in the morning!”
“Mum, dont start,” Oliver shot back.
“Mrs. Thompson, dont be dramatic,” Imogen added, not even looking up.
That was it.
“Pack your bags. Youre gone by morning.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Out. Or Ill help you pack myself.”
As I turned to leave, Imogen let out a snicker. Big mistake. I grabbed three bin bags and started shoving their things inside. They begged, pleadedtoo 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 apologies. Just sulks and snide remarks. But I didnt care. I shut the door. Turned the lock. Sat down. For the first time in six monthssilence.
Whered they go? No idea. Imogens got parents, friends, always a sofa to crash on. They werent left on the street.
No regrets. I did what I had to. Because this is my house. My castle. And I wont let anyone trample through it with muddy boots. Not even my son.
Sometimes, “no” is the purest form of love. Because only those who respect themselves can truly respect others.
