That night I kicked my son and his wife out and took the keys back—there comes a moment when you realise enough is enough.
It’s been a week, and I still haven’t fully processed it. I threw out my own son and his wife. And you know what? I don’t feel guilty. Not one bit. Because that was the final straw. They pushed me to this.
It all started six months ago. I came home from work like usual, exhausted, dreaming of a cuppa and some peace. And what do I see? My son, Thomas, and his wife, Sophie, in my kitchen. She’s slicing ham, he’s sitting at the table reading the paper, grinning as if nothing’s wrong.
*”Hey, Mum! Thought we’d pop round!”*
At first glance—no big deal. I’m always happy when Thomas visits. But then it hit me—this wasn’t a visit. They’d *moved in*. No warning, no asking. Just barged into my flat and stayed.
Turned out they’d been evicted for not paying rent for six months. I’d *told* them—don’t overstretch yourselves! Find somewhere affordable, live within your means. But no, they had to have a posh place in the city centre, all done up, with a balcony view. And when it all fell apart, straight to Mum’s.
*”Mum, it’s just for a week. Promise. I’ll start looking straight away,”* Thomas swore.
Like a fool, I believed him. Thought—fine, a week won’t kill me. We’re family. You help out. If only I’d known what it’d turn into…
A week passed. Then another. Then *three months*. No one bothered to actually look for a place. Meanwhile, they settled in like they owned it—no asking, no helping, nothing. And Sophie… God, I was so wrong about her.
She never cooked, never cleaned. Spent her days gallivanting with mates, or if she *was* home—lounging on the sofa glued to her phone. I’d come back from work, cook dinner, wash the dishes, and she’d act like a pampered guest in a spa. Couldn’t even rinse her own mug.
Once, I gently suggested maybe looking for part-time work to help out. Got slapped back with—*”We know how to live our lives. Thanks for your concern.”*
I fed them, paid the utilities. Not a single quid from them. And on top of that? They’d throw a fit if things didn’t go their way. Every little remark from me turned into a full-blown row.
Then, a week ago. Late night. I’m in bed, trying to sleep. Next door, the telly’s blaring, Thomas and Sophie laughing like it’s a party. I’ve got work at six. I marched in—
*”Are you lot ever planning to sleep? I’ve got to be up at dawn!”*
*”Mum, don’t start,”* Thomas muttered.
*”Our Lady of Perpetual Drama, spare us the theatrics,”* Sophie added, not even looking up.
Something inside me *snapped*.
*”Pack your things. You’re gone tomorrow.”*
*”What?”*
*”You heard. Get packed. Or I’ll do it for you.”*
When I turned to leave, Sophie *snorted*. Bad move. I grabbed three big suitcases and started stuffing their things in. They pleaded, tried to stop me—too late.
*”You leave now, or I call the police.”*
Half an hour later, their bags were in the hall. I took the keys. No tears, no apologies—just sulking and blame. Didn’t matter. I shut the door. Turned the lock. Sat down. First time in *six months*—silence.
Where they went? No idea. Sophie’s got parents, plenty of mates. Someone’s sofa’ll take them. They won’t starve.
No regrets. I did the right thing. Because this is *my* home. My castle. And I won’t let anyone stomp through it in muddy boots—not even my own son.
