That night, I threw my son and his wife out and took back their keys. There comes a moment when you realize—enough is enough.
A week has passed, and I still haven’t recovered. I tossed 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 forced my hand.
It started six months ago. I came home from work, exhausted, dreaming of a quiet cuppa. And what do I see? My son Tom and his wife Lily in the kitchen. She’s slicing ham, he’s at the table reading the paper, grinning like nothing’s wrong.
“Hi, Mum! Thought we’d pop round!”
At first, it seemed harmless. I’m always happy when Tom visits. But then it hit me—this wasn’t a visit. It was an invasion. No warning. No asking. They just barged into my flat and stayed.
Turns out, they’d been evicted—hadn’t paid rent in six months. I’d warned them—live within your means! Find something modest. But no. They wanted central London, 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,” Tom swore.
Like a fool, I believed him. A week, I thought—not the end of the world. Family helps family. If only I’d known how it would spiral.
A week passed. Then two. Then three months. No one was looking for flats. Instead, they settled in like royalty. No asking, no consulting, no helping. And Lily—God, how I misjudged her.
She never cooked, never cleaned. Spent her days flitting between friends or lounging on the sofa with her phone. I’d come home from work, make dinner, wash up—while she acted like a guest at a spa. Wouldn’t even rinse her own mug.
Once, I carefully suggested a part-time job—might ease things. Her response?
“We know how to live our lives. Thanks for the concern.”
I fed them, paid the bills, covered everything. Not a penny from them. And still, they’d explode if things didn’t go their way. Every word from me turned into a storm.
Then, a week ago. Late night. I’m in bed, struggling to sleep. Next door, the telly blares, Tom and Lily laugh and argue. And I’ve work at six. I stormed in.
“Are you two ever going to sleep? I’ve got to be up at dawn!”
“Mum, don’t start,” Tom groaned.
“Don’t be dramatic, love,” Lily added, not even looking up.
Something in me snapped.
“Pack your things. You’re out tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Pack. Or I’ll do it for you.”
As I turned to leave, Lily scoffed. Big mistake. I grabbed three suitcases and started shoving their things inside. They begged, they pleaded—too late.
“Leave now, or I’ll call the police.”
Half an hour later, their bags were in the hall. I took the keys. No tears. No regrets. Just fury and blame. But I didn’t care. I shut the door. Locked it. And sat. Finally—silence.
Where they went—no idea. Lily’s got parents, friends—someone’s couch will do. They’ll survive.
I don’t regret it. I did what was right. Because this is my home. My castle. And I won’t let anyone trample through it with muddy boots. Not even my son.
