That night, I took my son and daughter-in-laws keys and showed them the door. The moment had comeenough was enough.
A week has passed, and I still cant quite believe what I did. I threw out my own son and his wife. And you know what? I dont feel an ounce of guilt. Because it was the last straw. They forced my hand.
It all started six months ago. I came home from work, exhausted, just wanting a cup of tea and some quiet. And what do I find? My son, James, and his wife, Emily, in the kitchen. Shes slicing cheese; hes lounging at the table, reading the paper like its nothing, and he flashes me a grin:
“Hey, Mum! Thought wed drop by!”
At first, it seemed harmless. Im always happy to see James. But then I realisedthis wasnt a visit. It was a takeover. No warning, no asking. They just moved in.
Turns out, theyd been evicted from their flatsix months behind on rent. Id warned them: live within your means! Find something modest, cut back. But no. They wanted a posh flat in central London, balcony views and all. When it all fell apart, they ran straight to Mums.
“Mum, just a week, I swear. Im already looking for a place,” James insisted.
Like a fool, I believed him. One week wouldnt hurt, I thought. Were family. I had 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 respect. And EmilyGod, how wrong I was about her.
She didnt cook, didnt clean. Spent her days with friends or lounging on the sofa scrolling through her phone. Id come home from work, make dinner, wash upshe treated it like a hotel. Couldnt even rinse her own mug.
One day, I gently suggested they pick up extra work. Might ease things. The reply was instant:
“Weve got it handled. Thanks for the concern.”
I was footing the billswater, electricity, gas. Not a penny from them. And if I dared complain? A full-blown row. Every word I said became a storm.
Then, last week. Late at night. Im in bed, struggling to sleep. The tellys blaring in the living room, James and Emily laughing, shouting. I had to be up at six. I marched out:
“Are you two going to bed or not? Some of us have work!”
“Mum, dont start,” James said.
“Mrs. Thompson, stop being dramatic,” Emily added, not even looking up.
That was it.
“Pack your bags. Youre out tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Leave. Or Ill pack for you.”
As I turned to go, Emily snorted. Big mistake. I grabbed three bin bags and started shoving their things inside. They begged, protestedtoo late.
“Either you walk out, or I call the police.”
Half an hour later, their bags were in the hallway. I took their keys. No tears, no apologies. Just anger and blame. But I didnt care. I shut the door. Locked it. And sat down. For the first time in six monthssilence.
Whered they go? No idea. Emilys got parents, friendssomeones sofa to crash on. They werent homeless.
No regrets. I did what I had to. Because this is my house. My castle. And I wont let anyone trample it with muddy boots. Not even my son.
Sometimes, saying “no” is the greatest act of love. Because only those who respect themselves can truly respect others.
