That night, I showed my son and his wife the door and took back their keys. The moment had comeenough was enough.
A week has passed, and I still haven’t recovered. I threw 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 last straw. They forced my hand.
It all started six months ago. I came home from work, exhausted, longing for a cup of tea and silence. And what do I find? My son James and his wife Poppy in my kitchen. She’s slicing bacon, and he’s sitting at the table, reading the paper, grinning like nothings wrong.
*”Hello, Mum! Thought wed drop by!”*
At first glancenothing alarming. Im always happy to see James. But then it hit methis wasnt a visit. It was an invasion. No warning, no permission asked. They just barged in and stayed.
Turns out, theyd been evictedsix months behind on rent. Id warned them: *Live within your means.* But no. They wanted the city centre, a posh flat, a balcony with a view. And when it all fell apartstraight to Mums.
*”Just a week, Mum. Promise, well find somewhere,”* James swore.
Like a fool, I believed him. A weekfine. Were family. You help. If only Id known what it would become
A week passed. Then another. Then three months. No flat-hunting. Just settling in like they owned the place. Living as they pleasedno respect, no contribution, no care. And Poppy God, how I misjudged her.
She didnt cook, didnt clean. Out with friends all day or lounging on the sofa with her phone. Id come home from work, cook dinner, wash upwhile she acted like a guest at a luxury retreat. Couldnt even rinse her own mug.
Once, I hintedmaybe find extra work? Might help. The response was instant:
*”We know how to live our lives. Thanks for the concern.”*
I fed them, paid the billswater, electric, heating. Not a single pound from them. And if I dared complain? A row erupted. Every word I spoke turned into a storm.
Then, last week. Late evening. Im in bed, struggling to sleep. The tellys blaring in the next room, James and Poppy laughing, chatting. Ive work in the morning. I walked in:
*”Are you two going to bed soon? Ive an early start.”*
*”Mum, dont be dramatic,”* said James.
*”Mrs. Margaret, no need for the theatrics,”* Poppy added, not even looking up.
Something inside me snapped.
*”Pack your things. Youre gone by morning.”*
*”What?”*
*”You heard me. Out. Or I start throwing your belongings out myself.”*
As I turned to leave, Poppy muttered something under her breath. That was it. I grabbed three large suitcases and began stuffing their things inside. They pleaded, protestedtoo late.
*”Leave now, or Im calling the police.”*
Half an hour later, their bags lined the hallway. I took the keys. No tears, no apologiesjust anger and blame. But I didnt care anymore. I shut the door. Locked it. Sat down. For the first time in six monthssilence.
Where they wentI dont know. Poppys got parents, plenty of mates, always finds a sofa. They wont starve.
I dont regret it. I did what was right. Because this is *my* home. *My* sanctuary. And I wont let anyone trample through it with muddy boots. Not even my own son.
