That night, I kicked my son and his wife out and took back the keys—there came a moment when I realized I’d had enough.
A week has passed, and I still haven’t recovered. I threw out my own son and his wife. And you know what? I don’t feel guilty. Not one bit. Because it was the last straw. They forced me into that decision.
It all began six months ago. I came home from work, exhausted, dreaming of a cup of tea and silence. And what do I see? In the kitchen—my son Daniel and his wife Emily. She’s slicing ham, he’s sitting at the table, reading a newspaper, smiling like nothing’s wrong.
*”Hey, Mum! Thought we’d pop by!”*
At first glance—nothing terrible. I’m always happy when Daniel visits. But then I understood—this wasn’t a visit. It was an invasion. No warning, no asking. They’d just barged into my flat and stayed.
Turns out, they’d been evicted—six months behind on rent. I’d warned them: *Don’t stretch beyond your means!* Find somewhere modest, live within your budget. But no. They wanted the city centre, fancy renovations, a balcony with a view. And when it all fell apart—straight to Mum’s.
*”Mum, just a week. Promise—I’ll find a place,”* Daniel insisted.
Like a fool, I believed him. Thought—fine, a week won’t kill us. We’re family. You help family. If only I’d known what was coming…
A week passed. Then a second. Then three months. No one searched for a flat. But they made themselves right at home—no questions, no respect, no help. And Emily—good Lord, I’d misjudged her.
She didn’t cook, didn’t clean. Spent her days out with friends or lounging on the sofa, glued to her phone. I’d come home from work, cook dinner, wash dishes—while she treated the place like a hotel. Wouldn’t even rinse her own mug.
One day, I gently suggested: *Maybe find a part-time job? It’d help.* And the response?
*”We know how to live our lives. Thanks for your concern.”*
I fed them. Paid the bills—water, electricity, gas. Not a penny from them. And still, they’d throw tantrums if things didn’t go their way. Every word of mine started a storm.
Then—a week ago. Late at night. I’m in bed, desperate for sleep. Next room, the telly blares, Daniel and Emily laughing, shouting. I’ve got work at six. I walked in.
*”Are you two going to sleep? I have to be up in five hours!”*
*”Mum, don’t start,”* Daniel sighed.
*”Madame Margaret, no need for dramatics,”* Emily added, not even turning around.
Something inside me snapped.
*”Pack your things. You’re gone tomorrow.”*
*”What?”*
*”You heard me. Out. Or I’ll pack for you.”*
When I turned to leave, Emily scoffed. Big mistake. Silently, I grabbed three large suitcases and started stuffing their belongings inside. They begged, protested, but too late.
*”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 resentment. But I was past caring. I shut the door. Turned the lock. Sat down.
For the first time in six months—silence.
Where they went, I don’t know. Emily’s got parents, plenty of mates—always a sofa somewhere. They won’t starve.
I don’t regret it. I did right. Because this is *my* house. *My* fortress. And I won’t let anyone trample through it with dirty boots. Not even my son.
