That night I kicked my son and his wife out and took back the keys—there came a moment when I’d finally had enough.
A week has passed, and I still haven’t fully recovered. I threw them out—my own son and his wife. And you know what? I don’t feel guilty. Not one bit. Because that was the last straw. They pushed me to it.
It started six months ago. I came home from work, exhausted, just wanting a cup of tea and some peace. And what do I find? In my kitchen, my son Daniel and his wife Emily. She’s slicing ham, he’s at the table reading the paper, smiling like nothing’s wrong.
“Hi, Mum! Thought we’d pop round for a visit!”
At first, it seemed harmless. I was always happy when Daniel dropped by. But then it hit me—this wasn’t a visit. It was a move-in. No warning, no asking. They just barged into my flat and stayed.
Turned out, they’d been evicted—six months behind on rent. I’d told them before—live within your means! Find something modest, build up slowly. But no. They had to have a posh flat in the city centre, all modern fittings, a balcony with a view. And when it crumbled? Straight to Mum’s.
“Mum, it’s just for a week. Promise. I’m looking for a place,” Daniel said.
Like a fool, I believed him. Thought—fine, a week’s no disaster. We’re family. You help when you can. If only I’d known how it’d turn out…
A week passed. Then two. Then three months. No sign of them even trying to find a place. But they settled in fast—acting like they owned it. No asking, no helping. And Emily… God, how wrong I was about her.
She never cooked, never cleaned. Spent her days out with mates or lounging on the sofa glued to her phone. I’d come home from work, make dinner, wash up—while she acted like a guest at a spa. Couldn’t even rinse a mug.
Once, I gently suggested—maybe find some work? Ease the load a bit. And the reply?
“We know how to handle our lives. Thanks for the concern.”
I fed them, covered the bills—water, electricity, gas. Not a penny from them. And still, they’d kick off if things didn’t go their way. Any hint of criticism, and it was World War Three.
Then, last week. Late at night. I’m lying in bed, trying to sleep. Next room—TV blaring, Daniel and Emily laughing, arguing. And I’ve got work at six. I walked in.
“Are you two even planning to sleep? I’ve got an early start!”
“Mum, don’t start,” Daniel said.
“Don’t be dramatic, Mrs. Thompson,” Emily added, not even looking up.
Something inside me snapped.
“Pack your things. You’re gone tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Start packing. Or I’ll do it for you.”
When I turned to leave, Emily scoffed. Big mistake. I grabbed three big suitcases and started stuffing their things in. They begged, they pleaded—too late.
“Either you walk out now, or I call the police.”
Half an hour later, their stuff was by the door. I took the keys. No tears, no apologies. Just resentment and blame. But I was done caring. I shut the door. Locked it. And sat. For the first time in months—silence.
Where they went, I don’t know. Emily’s got parents, plenty of friends—someone’s sofa to crash on. Doubt they’ll starve.
No regrets. I did the right thing. Because this is my home. My castle. And I won’t let anyone trample through it with muddy boots. Not even my son.
