That night, I shut the door behind my son and his wife and took back the keys to my flat. I’ve had enough—I won’t tolerate it any longer.
Even now, my hands still shake. A week has passed since I threw my own son and his wife out. No, I don’t regret it. Not for a second. What happened was inevitable. They brought it on themselves. There simply came a moment when I knew—I wouldn’t take another step back.
I’d come home from work that evening, exhausted as usual. The moment I stepped inside, I froze. There, at my kitchen table, sat my son Oliver and his wife Charlotte. She was slicing ham, he was flipping through the newspaper—smiling as if nothing was out of place.
“Hello, Mum! Thought we’d pop in for a visit,” Oliver said cheerfully, as if this wasn’t an outright invasion of my home.
At first, I was happy. I always am when he comes by. But I didn’t realise “visit” actually meant “move in uninvited.” Turns out, they’d been kicked out of their flat for not paying rent. Not surprising, really. I’d warned them before—find somewhere modest, live within your means. But no! They had to have a posh place in the city centre, all fancy decor…
“Couldn’t you have called? Given me some warning?” I asked, still reeling.
“Mum, it’s just temporary. I’m already looking for a new place. We’ll be out in a week—promise.”
A week… Fine. A week isn’t a year. As his mother, of course I couldn’t say no. So I let them stay. If I’d known how it would end, I’d have thought twice.
A week passed. Then another. No sign of them leaving. Instead, they settled in like they owned the place. Oliver stopped mentioning flat-hunting, and Charlotte? She acted like I owed her everything.
She didn’t work. Spent her days lounging in front of the telly or out with mates. I’d come back after my shift—flies buzzing over dirty dishes, the floor sticky, no dinner in sight. And all while they lived off me—not a penny for food, not a quid towards bills!
I tried hinting once or twice. “Charlotte, love, maybe pick up some temp work? Extra cash, keeps you busy.” She screwed up her face and snapped:
“We’ll sort our own lives, thanks! Keep your nose out!”
I was too stunned to speak. Just walked out and shut my bedroom door. But the resentment festered. Grew. Chipped away at the patience I forced myself to keep—because that’s what mothers do.
Then came the final straw.
Last Friday, I dragged myself home, dead on my feet. And there they were, acting like they weren’t bleeding me dry. Telly blaring, sprawled on the sofa, crisps crunching, bingeing some rubbish series. While I had to be up at six! Enough.
I marched in. “Could you keep it down? Some of us have work in the morning!”
Oliver barely looked up. “Chill, Mum. We’re nearly done.”
But Charlotte, scrolling on her phone, muttered: “Margaret, don’t make a scene. Night-night.”
That was it.
“Turn. It. Off. Now.”
They exchanged looks. Charlotte rolled her eyes. Oliver shrugged. And then I said:
“That’s it. Out. Tomorrow. I’m done.”
They whined—”We’re not in your way,” “Mum, you’re overreacting.” But I wasn’t stopping. I yanked three suitcases from the wardrobe and started packing their things myself. Oliver tried to block me.
“Either you walk out now, or I ring the police. I don’t owe you a thing—clear?”
Half an hour later, they stood in the hall, bags at their feet. I shut the door, twisted their spare keys from the lock, pocketed them, and breathed for the first time in months.
No idea where they went. Charlotte’s parents might’ve taken them in. God knows she’s got enough friends. And Oliver’s a grown man—he’ll manage.
Me? Not a shred of guilt. I have my home back. My silence. My sleep. My freedom. My dignity.
Yes, I’m a mother. But I’m not a free B&B. Not a doormat. I’m a woman who’s earned peace within her own walls.