**Diary Entry**
That night, I showed my son and his wife the door and took back their keysthere comes a moment when you realise enough is enough.
A week has passed, and I still havent quite recovered. I kicked my own son and his wife out of my house. And you know what? I dont feel guilty. Not one bit. Because this was the final straw. They forced my hand.
It all started six months ago. As usual, I came home from work tired, craving a cup of tea and some peace. And what do I find? My son James and his wife Felicity in my kitchen. Shes slicing ham, and hes sat at the table, flipping through the newspaper as if nothings amiss, grinning:
Hey, Mum! Thought wed drop by!
At first glanceno big deal. Im always happy when James visits. But then I realised: this wasnt a visit. It was an invasion. No warning, no asking. They just barged into my flat and stayed.
Turns out, theyd been evicted from their rented placesix months behind on payments. Id warned them: dont stretch yourselves thin! Live within your means. But no. They wanted a central location, a posh flat, a balcony with a view. And when it all fell apartstraight to Mums.
Mum, its just for a week. Promise, well look for a place, James assured me.
Like a fool, I believed him. Thought, fine, a week wont hurt. Were family. You help when you can. If only Id known what it would turn into
A week passed. Then another. Then three months. They made no effort to find a place. Settled in nicely, though. Lived like they owned the placeno asking, no contributing, no respect. And Felicity God, how I misjudged her.
She never cooked, never cleaned. Spent all day out with friends, and if she was homelazing on the sofa with her phone. Id come back from work, make dinner, wash up, while she acted like she was on holiday. Couldnt even rinse her own mug.
One evening, I gently suggested maybe finding extra work would help. Got snapped at immediately:
We know how to live our lives. Thanks for the concern.
I fed them, paid the billswater, electric, heating. Not a penny from them. And still, theyd start rows if anything didnt suit them. Every remark I made became a storm.
Then, a week ago. Late evening. Im in bed, trying to sleep. Next room over, the tellys blaring, James and Felicity laughing, chatting away. Ive work in the morning. Went in and said:
You two turning in soon? Ive an early start.
Mum, dont be dramatic, James said.
Mrs. Thompson, no need for the theatrics, Felicity added, not even looking up.
Something inside me snapped.
Pack your things. Youre gone by morning.
What?
You heard. Out.
Or I start tossing your stuff myself.
As I turned to leave, Felicity muttered something under her breath. That did it. Silently, I grabbed three large bags and started shoving their things in. They tried to stop me, begged, but it was too late.
Leave now, or I call the police.
Half an hour later, their bags were in the hallway. I took the keys. No tears, no apologies. Just anger and blame. But I didnt care anymore. Shut the door. Locked it. Sat down. For the first time in six monthssilence.
Where they went, I dont know. Felicitys got parents, plenty of friendsshell find a sofa somewhere. They wont starve.
No regrets. I did the right thing. This is my home. My castle. And I wont let anyone trample through it with muddy boots. Not even my own son.
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes, kindness is mistaken for weakness. Setting boundaries isnt crueltyits self-respect.
