That night, I shut the door behind my son and his wife, held out my hand, and took back the keys to my flat. My heart was pounding, my hands were shaking — but my mind was clear.
I’d had enough.
A week has passed since I threw out my own son and his wife. And no — I don’t regret it. Not for a single second. What happened was unavoidable. They pushed me there, step by step, until something inside me finally snapped and I realised: this ends now.
It had been an ordinary evening. I came home from work bone-tired, feet aching, brain foggy, already dreaming about a quiet cup of tea. I unlocked the door, stepped inside… and froze.
There they were.
Timothy sat at the table, feet up, reading the paper like he owned the place. Chloe stood at the counter, calmly slicing ham, humming to herself. The kettle was on. My kettle. My food. My flat.
“Hello, Mum!” Timothy said brightly. “Thought we’d pop by for a visit.”
A visit.
At first, I felt that familiar rush of happiness I always get when I see my son. I’m his mother — of course I’m glad when he comes around. But that feeling didn’t last long. Something felt off. Too comfortable. Too settled.
And then it came out.
They hadn’t just “popped by.” They’d been evicted. Thrown out of their flat for not paying rent.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d warned them so many times. Live within your means. Find somewhere modest. You don’t need luxury. But no — they wanted that shiny city-centre flat, the designer kitchen, the fancy bathroom. All show, no sense.
“Couldn’t you have called first?” I asked, still trying to process what was happening. “At least warned me?”
“Mum, it’s only for a bit,” Timothy said quickly. “I’m already looking for somewhere new. We’ll be out in a week. Promise.”
A week.
A week didn’t sound like forever. And what kind of mother turns her own son away? So I swallowed my doubts and said yes.
If I’d known then what I know now, I would have said no.
That first week came and went. Then another. And another.
There was no talk of viewings. No packed boxes. No urgency at all. Instead, they settled in like permanent residents. Timothy stopped mentioning moving out altogether, and Chloe behaved as though I’d personally inconvenienced her by existing.
She didn’t work. Not even part-time. She spent her days out shopping or stretched out on my sofa, television blaring from morning to night. I’d come home exhausted to find dirty dishes stacked in the sink, crumbs ground into the carpet, the flat a mess. No dinner. No cleaning. Nothing.
And all of it on my dime.
I paid for the food. The electricity. The heating. Everything. Not a penny from them.
I tried to be gentle at first. One evening, I said softly, “Chloe, love, have you thought about finding a little job? Just something to keep busy, help out a bit?”
She looked at me like I’d insulted her.
“We’ll sort ourselves out,” she snapped. “Butt out.”
I stood there, stunned. I didn’t argue. I just walked to my room, shut the door, and sat on the bed in silence. But something had shifted. The resentment started to grow — quiet at first, then louder, heavier. I kept telling myself to be patient. He’s your son. But patience has limits.
The breaking point came last Friday.
I dragged myself home after a long shift, barely able to keep my eyes open. And there they were — sprawled across the living room like royalty. TV blaring, laughing, crisps everywhere, some mindless rubbish show on full volume.
I had to be up at six.
“Would you mind keeping it down?” I said, trying to stay calm. “Some of us have work in the morning.”
Timothy didn’t even look at me.
“Mum, don’t start. We’ll turn it off soon.”
Then Chloe, without lifting her eyes from her phone, muttered, “Margaret, don’t make a scene. Goodnight.”
That was it.
“Turn. It. Off. Now.”
They looked at each other. Chloe rolled her eyes. Timothy shrugged.
Something inside me broke clean in two.
“Right,” I said. “You’re out. Tomorrow. I’m done.”
They jumped up then, suddenly animated.
“Mum, you’re overreacting.”
“We’re not in your way.”
“Where are we supposed to go?”
I didn’t answer. I went straight to the hall cupboard, dragged out three large suitcases, and started stuffing their things inside. Clothes, shoes, chargers — anything I could grab.
Timothy tried to stop me. “Mum, please, calm down.”
“Leave,” I said. “Now. Or I call the police.”
They stared at me like they didn’t recognise me. Maybe they didn’t. Because the woman standing there wasn’t the one who made excuses anymore.
They left that night.
The flat was silent afterward. No TV. No laughter. No tension hanging in the air. Just quiet.
I cried — of course I did. I’m not made of stone. But beneath the tears was relief. Deep, steady relief.
The next morning, I woke up early, made my tea, and sat by the window. For the first time in weeks, my home felt like mine again.
Timothy hasn’t called. Chloe certainly hasn’t. And that’s fine.
I raised my son to be responsible. I raised him to stand on his own feet. Loving your child doesn’t mean letting them walk all over you.
Sometimes, the hardest thing a parent can do is say no.
And sometimes, saying no is the most loving thing of all.
