That night, I kicked my son and his wife out and took back the keys—the moment I realized I’d had enough.
My heart’s still racing like I’ve just run a marathon. A week ago, I threw my own son and his wife out of my house. And you know what? I don’t regret a thing. They brought this on themselves. Coming home from work that fateful evening, I walked into pure chaos in my own home, and I couldn’t take it anymore. There was a time I’d have been thrilled to see my son visit, but things had changed.
Six months ago, my life turned upside down. Exhausted after my shift, I opened the door to my flat in an old house on the outskirts of Manchester and froze. There, at my kitchen table, sat my son Liam and his wife, Gemma. She was slicing ham while he scrolled lazily through his phone. When he spotted me, Liam grinned and said, “Hey, Mum! Thought we’d pop round for a visit.”
I should’ve been happy—what mother doesn’t love seeing her son? But soon, I realized this wasn’t just a visit. They hadn’t just “popped round”—they planned to stay. Turned out, they’d been kicked out of their rented flat for not paying. Color me surprised. How many times had I warned them? If you can’t afford a fancy place in the city center, find something cheaper! But no, they had to have the posh flat in a swanky area.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” I asked, feeling that familiar knot of dread tighten in my stomach.
“Mum, it’s just for a week. I’ll find us a new place soon, promise,” Liam insisted.
A week? That’s nothing, I thought. Of course, I said yes—I’m his mum, I had to help. If only I’d known how much I’d regret it. Gemma wasn’t just a guest; she was a walking disaster. Her sheer cheek took me by surprise.
A week flew by, and they hadn’t lifted a finger to leave. They settled into my flat like it was theirs. Liam stopped even pretending to look for a place. I bit my tongue, not wanting to stir the pot. But Gemma’s behavior grated on me more every day. She did nothing—no cooking, no cleaning, not even washing up after herself. Living rent-free and still acting like she owned the place!
Gemma doesn’t work. While Liam’s out, she lounges about—either at her mate’s or glued to the telly. Her laziness and total lack of concern drove me mad. A month passed, then another. One day, I finally snapped and said, “Gemma, maybe you should look for a job? Bit of money and something to do.”
She flared up like a firework. “We know how to live our lives, thanks! Keep your nose out!”
I was stunned. So, I’m supporting them—paying for everything, no rent, no bills, no food—and I’m supposed to keep quiet? Every time I said a word, it ended in a row. I felt like I was losing control of my own life.
The breaking point came a week ago. I came home from work, dreaming of peace and quiet, only to hear the telly blaring from the living room. Liam and Gemma were howling with laughter over some ridiculous reality show. They were having a laugh while I had to be up at six the next morning.
I’d had enough. I stormed in and snapped, “How long is this going to go on?”
They stared at me like I’d grown a second head.
“Ever think I might want some rest too? I need sleep!” I tried to explain.
Gemma rolled her eyes. “Oh, come off it, Margaret! We’ll turn it off when this is over.”
Liam chimed in, “Mum, stop being dramatic. What’s got into you?”
That was the last straw. I lost it. Shouted at them to turn it off immediately. Maybe it would’ve ended there, but Gemma started giggling like it was all a joke. That final bit of cheek pushed me over the edge.
“Pack your things and get out! I want you gone by tomorrow!” I barked.
I turned to leave, but then I heard Gemma snort. That did it. I wasn’t waiting till morning. I grabbed three bags and started shoving their clothes, shoes, whatever I could grab inside. They tried to stop me, muttering excuses, but I wasn’t backing down.
“If you’re not gone, I’ll call the police!” I threatened.
The bags went flying out the door. Liam and Gemma tried apologizing, but I wasn’t having it. I took back my keys and slammed the door shut. For the first time in six months, I felt peace.
No idea where they went—probably crashed with friends or Gemma’s parents. They’ve got plenty of mates; they’ll find somewhere. But I won’t let them treat me like that again. No regrets. Maybe it was harsh, but I got my home—and my life—back.