That night, I kicked my son and daughter-in-law out of the house and took their keys. It was the moment I realisedenough is enough.
A week has passed, and I still cant believe what I did. I threw my own son and his wife out of my home. And you know what? I dont feel a shred of guilt. Because it was the last straw. They pushed me to this.
It all started six months ago. I came home from work, same as always. Tired, just wanting a cuppa and some peace. And what do I find? In the kitchen are my son, James, and his wife, Emily. Shes slicing cheese, hes sat at the table reading the paper like nothings wrong, and he says with a grin:
“Hey, Mum! Thought wed pop round for a visit!”
At first glance, no big deal. Im always happy to see James. But then I realisedthis wasnt a visit. It was a move-in. No warning, no asking. They just walked into my house and made themselves at home.
Turns out theyd been evicted from their flathadnt paid rent in six months. Id warned them before: dont live beyond your means! Find somewhere cheaper, cut back. But no. They wanted central London, a fancy renovated flat, 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.
Like a fool, I believed him. Thought, well, a week wont hurt. Were family. I should help. If only Id known how itd turn out
A week passed. Then another. Then three months. No one was looking for a place. Instead, they settled in like it was theirs. No asking, no helping, no pitching in. And Emilygood grief, I misjudged her so badly.
She didnt cook, didnt clean. Spent her days out with mates, and when she was home, she was glued to her phone on the sofa. Id come home from work, make dinner, wash up, and herlike some hotel guest. Wouldnt even rinse her own glass.
One day, I gently suggested maybe they could pick up some extra work? Might speed things along. The response was instant:
“Weve got it handled. Thanks for the concern.”
I was paying for everythingwater, electric, gas. They didnt put in a penny. And still, theyd kick off if something wasnt to their liking. Every word I said turned into a row.
Then, a week ago. Late at night. Im in bed, cant sleep. In the living room, the tellys blaring, James and Emily laughing, shouting. I had to be up at six. I went out and said:
“Are you two going to sleep or not? Ive got work in the morning!”
“Mum, dont start,” James shot back.
“Mrs. Thompson, no need for drama,” Emily added, not even looking up.
That was it.
“Pack your bags. Youre gone by tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out. Or Ill help you pack myself.”
As I turned to leave, Emily let out a little laugh. Big mistake. I grabbed three bin bags and started shoving their things in. They tried to stop me, begged, but it was too late.
“Leave now, or Ill call the police.”
Half an hour later, their suitcases were in the hall. I took their keys. No tears, no apologies. Just anger and blame. 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. Emilys got parents, friends, always a sofa to crash on. I know they werent on the street.
No regrets. I did what I had to. Because this is my home. My castle. And I wont let anyone trample all over it. Not even my son.
Sometimes, saying “no” is the biggest act of love. Because if you dont respect yourself, how can you ever truly respect anyone else?
