That night, I showed my son and his wife the door and took back their keysthe moment had come when I realised: enough is enough.
A week has passed, and I still havent 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 final straw. They forced my hand.
It all started six months ago. As usual, I came home from work, exhausted, craving a cup of tea and some peace. And what did I find? My son, Oliver, and his wife, Poppy, in the kitchen. She was slicing sausage, and he sat at the table, reading the paper, grinning as if nothing were amiss.
“Hello, Mum! Thought we’d drop by!”
At first glancenothing alarming. Im always glad when Oliver visits. But then I understood: this wasnt a visit. It was an invasion. No warning, no asking. They just stormed into my flat and stayed.
Turns out, theyd been evicted from their rented flatsix months of unpaid rent. Id told them: dont choose what you cant afford! Live within your means. But no. They wanted the city centre, a modern flat, a balcony with a view. And when it all fell apartstraight to Mums.
“Mum, just for a week. Promise, well find a place,” Oliver assured me.
Like a fool, I believed him. Thought: fine, a week wont kill me. Were family. We help each other. If only Id known what it would become
A week passed. Then another. Then three months. They werent even looking for a place. Meanwhile, they settled in nicely. Lived like kingsno chores, no contributions, no care in the world. And Poppy God, how wrong I was about her.
She didnt cook, didnt clean. Spent all day with friends or lounging on the sofa with her phone. Id come home from work, cook dinner, wash dishes, while she acted like a guest at a spa. Couldnt even rinse her own mug.
Once, I gently suggested they look for extra work. Might make things easier. The response was instant:
“We know how to live our lives. Thanks for the concern.”
I fed them, paid the water, electricity, heating. They didnt give a single pound. And still, theyd start rows if anything displeased them. Every remark turned into a storm.
Then, last week. Late night. I lay in bed, unable to sleep. The telly blared next door, Oliver and Poppy laughing, arguing. Meanwhile, I had work in the morning. I walked in:
“Kids, are you going to bed soon? Ive got an early start!”
“Mum, dont be dramatic,” Oliver said.
“Mrs. Margaret, no need for hysterics,” Poppy added, not even looking up.
Something inside me snapped.
“Pack your things. You wont be here tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out.
Or I start tossing your stuff myself.”
As I turned to leave, Poppy muttered something under her breath. That was it. Silently, I grabbed three large bags and began stuffing their belongings inside. They tried to stop me, beggedtoo late.
“Leave now, or I call the police.”
Half an hour later, their things sat in the hall. I took the keys. No tears, no apologies. Just anger and blame. But I didnt care anymore. I shut the door. Turned the lock. And sat down. For the first time in six monthssilence.
Where they went, I dont know. Poppy has parents, plenty of friends, always finds a sofa to crash on. They wont starve.
No regrets. I did the right thing. Because this is my home. My fortress. And I wont let anyone trample through it with muddy boots. Not even my own son.
