I allowed my son and his wife to live in my flat when their life hit a rough patch. But instead of gratitude, they started setting their own rules, arguing, and being rude. This is my home, and I won’t tolerate others taking charge. Things will be done my way, no questions asked.
My son, Oliver, decided to marry before finishing university. I begged him not to rush, warning him it was too soon—he needed to stand on his own feet first. But he wouldn’t listen. “I’m an adult, I know what’s best,” he snapped. Fine, I thought. His life, his choice. After his father passed, I inherited a flat in an older part of Leeds and put it in Oliver’s name. He and his wife, Emily, moved in right after the wedding.
The flat wasn’t new or fancy, but it was liveable. They settled in for a year before someone talked them into “investing in property.” They sold the flat I’d given them, added money from Emily’s parents—who insisted young couples needed support. I was stunned. I’d handed them a home! I could’ve rented it out and lived comfortably in retirement. Instead, they took a gamble, paying a fortune for a flat that didn’t even exist yet—the building was still under construction.
Fair enough, their decision. They rented a place while waiting for their “dream home” to be built. Everything was fine until the economy crashed.
Emily lost her job and couldn’t find anything paying well. Their budget collapsed, so they asked to stay with me. Not with suitcases in hand—no, they asked politely first. I couldn’t say no to my son. I opened my home but set ground rules: I go to bed at 10 p.m.—no noise after that. The telly stays on during the day—I like the background hum. No dirty dishes in the kitchen, and everything stays tidy. They nodded, seemingly agreeable.
At first, it was bearable. If I pointed something out, they fixed it. But soon, they grew tired of accommodating me. The arguments started, then the complaints, and finally—their attempts to dictate how things should be.
“Mum, not again! It’s just a mug—I’ll wash it later! Turn the telly off, I can’t relax!” Oliver huffed.
“Why clean every day? Get a robot vacuum! You waste so much time, and the place is already spotless,” Emily chimed in.
“Don’t wake up at seven on weekends! You’re disturbing us! Nine o’clock, and you’re already hoovering,” my son scolded.
Their irritation grew like a snowball. They rolled their eyes when I asked them to clear the table, grumbled if the telly was on. My home became a battleground where I, the owner, had to justify myself. My patience snapped one evening. I couldn’t take it anymore and blurted:
“Pack your things and leave.”
Oliver stared at me like I’d slapped him.
“You’re kicking your own son out over your odd rules? You know how tough things are for us! We need help!”
“People who need help show gratitude and respect—they don’t rewrite the rules!” I shot back. “I was clear from the start.”
“Cheers, Mum, for the ‘help’!” he sneered before storming off to pack.
Maybe he expected me to chase after him, beg them to stay, let them do as they pleased. But no. I didn’t ask for anything unreasonable. Yes, it might’ve been inconvenient for them, but sharing my home wasn’t a joy for me either. I made a sacrifice letting them in, and they acted like it was theirs to rule.
I won’t bend to anyone in my own home—not even my son. He knew my ways and my thoughts about Emily. If they don’t like it, they can go live elsewhere and call the shots there. I’ll visit and start laying down my own rules—see how they like it.
They left, slamming the door. I’ve no idea where they are now, and I don’t care. This is my home, my life, and I won’t let anyone take my right to run it from me.