That night, I turned my son and his wife out the door and took back their keys. The moment had come when I realized—enough was enough.
A week has passed, and I still haven’t quite recovered. I kicked out my own son and his wife. And you know what? I don’t feel guilty. Not one bit. Because it was the final straw. They had pushed me to make that choice.
It all started six months ago. I came home from work, as usual—exhausted, dreaming of a cup of tea and some peace. And what did I find? My son William and his wife, Evelyn, sprawled in my kitchen. She was slicing ham, while he sat at the table, flipping through a newspaper as if nothing were out of place.
*“Hey, Mum! Thought we’d pop in for a visit!”*
At first glance, it seemed harmless. I was always happy when William dropped by. But then it dawned on me—this wasn’t a visit. It was an invasion. No warning. No asking. They had marched into my flat and simply stayed.
Turned out, they’d been evicted—six months of unpaid rent. I’d warned them: *Don’t stretch beyond your means!* Find something modest, live within your budget. But no. They wanted central London, luxury fittings, a balcony with a view. And when it all collapsed, they bolted straight to Mum’s.
*“Mum, just a week. Promise. I’ll find a place,”* William assured me.
Like a fool, I believed him. I thought, *Fine. A week won’t hurt. We’re family. We help each other.* If only I’d known what lay ahead…
A week passed. Then two. Then three months. No flat-hunting. Just settling in like they owned the place—no asking, no contributing, no respect. And Evelyn… God, how I’d misjudged her.
She didn’t cook. Didn’t clean. Spent her days flitting between friends, and when she *was* home, she lounged on the sofa with her phone. I’d come back from work, cook dinner, wash up—while she acted like a pampered guest. Couldn’t even rinse a mug.
Once, I gently suggested, *“Maybe look for some part-time work? It’d ease the burden.”*
The response was instant: *“We know how to live our lives. Thanks for the concern.”*
I fed them. Paid their share of the bills. Not a penny from them. And still, they had the nerve to throw fits if things didn’t go their way. Every complaint I made turned into a storm.
Then, a week ago—late at night, lying in bed, unable to sleep. The telly blared in the next room, laughter, chatter. I had to be up at dawn. I marched in.
*“Are you two planning to sleep at all? I’ve got work in the morning!”*
*“Mum, don’t start,”* William muttered.
*“No need for theatrics, dear,”* Evelyn added without even turning.
Something inside me snapped.
*“Pack your things. You’re gone by tomorrow.”*
*“What?”*
*“You heard me. Get out. Or I’ll pack for you.”*
As I turned to leave, Evelyn let out a scoff. Big mistake. In silence, I grabbed three large suitcases and began stuffing their belongings inside. They pleaded, protested—but it was too late.
*“Leave now, or I’ll call the police.”*
Half an hour later, their bags waited in the hall. I took the keys. No tears. No apologies. Just irritation, accusations. But I didn’t care. I shut the door. Turned the lock. Sat down.
For the first time in half a year—silence.
Where they went, I don’t know. Evelyn has parents, plenty of mates—always a spare sofa. They won’t starve.
I don’t regret it. It was the right thing. Because this is *my* home. My castle. And I won’t let anyone trample through it in muddy boots—not even my own son.
