That night, I turned my son and his wife out the door and took back the keys. There came a moment when I understood—enough was enough.
A week has passed, and I still can’t quite steady myself. I threw out my own son and his wife. And do you know what? I feel no guilt. Not a shred. Because it was the final straw. They left me no other choice.
It began half a year ago. I came home from work as usual, weary, longing for a cup of tea and some peace. And what did I find? My son James and his wife Emily standing in my kitchen. She was slicing bread, and he sat at the table reading the newspaper, grinning as if nothing were amiss.
“Hello, Mum! Thought we’d drop by!”
At first, it seemed harmless enough. I was always glad when James visited. But soon I realised—this wasn’t a call. This was an occupation. No warning, no asking. They simply barged into my house and stayed.
As it turned out, they’d been evicted from their rented flat—six months behind on payments. I’d warned them often enough—live within your means! Find somewhere modest, cut your cloth accordingly. But no. They had to have the city centre, polished floors, a balcony with a view. And when it all fell apart—straight to Mum’s doorstep.
“Mum, it’s only for a week. I’ll find a place, I promise,” James assured me.
Fool that I was, I believed him. A week’s no hardship, I thought. We’re family. You help when you can. If only I’d known what was coming…
A week passed. Then another. Then three whole months. Neither of them lifted a finger to search for a new home. Instead, they settled in as if it were theirs—no asking, no manners, no help. And Emily… Lord, how I’d misjudged her.
She didn’t cook, didn’t clean. Spent her days visiting friends, and when she stayed in, she lounged on the sofa with her phone. I’d come home from work, cook dinner, wash the dishes—while she behaved like a holiday guest. Couldn’t even clean a teacup.
Once, I gently suggested—perhaps they could take on some work? It might ease the strain. And what did I get in return?
“We know how to live our lives. Thanks for the concern.”
I fed them, paid the water, the electricity, the gas. Not a penny did they offer. And still, they had the nerve to quarrel if things didn’t suit them. Every word of reproach from me turned into a storm.
Then, a week ago. Late evening. I lay in bed, unable to sleep. The telly blared in the next room, James and Emily laughing and chatting. I had work at dawn. I went to them.
“Are either of you planning to sleep? I’m up at six!”
“Mum, don’t start,” said James.
“Good heavens, Margaret, no need for dramatics,” added Emily, not even turning around.
Something in me snapped.
“Pack your things. Tomorrow, you’re gone.”
“What?”
“You heard. Get ready. Or I’ll do it for you.”
When I turned to leave, Emily scoffed. That was her mistake. In silence, I fetched three large bags and began stuffing in their belongings. They pleaded, protested—too late.
“Either you walk out, or I call the police.”
Half an hour later, their things were piled in the hall. I took back the keys. No tears, no remorse—only sulks and complaints. But I was past caring. I shut the door. Turned the lock. And sat down. For the first time in half a year—silence.
Where they went, I don’t know. Emily’s got parents, plenty of friends—someone’s sofa will do. They won’t go hungry.
I don’t regret it. I did right. Because this is my home. My castle. And I won’t let anyone trample through it in muddy boots. Not even my own son.
