My hands are still shaking as I write this, days after that terrible night when I finally threw my own son and his wife out of my house. Not an ounce of regret lingers—they brought this upon themselves. Coming home from work that evening to utter chaos was the final straw. There was a time when I cherished my son’s visits, but everything changed.
Six months ago, my life turned upside down. Exhausted after my shift, I unlocked the door to my modest flat on the outskirts of Manchester and froze. There they were—my son James and his wife Chloe—lounging at my kitchen table like they owned the place. Chloe was slicing ham while James lazily scrolled through his phone. When he spotted me, he flashed a grin:
*”Hi, Mum! Thought we’d pop in for a bit.”*
At first, I was happy—what mother wouldn’t be? But soon, it was clear this wasn’t just a visit. Turned out, they’d been evicted from their rented flat in central London for falling behind on payments. I wasn’t surprised. How many times had I warned them? If they couldn’t afford a posh flat, they should’ve settled for something modest! But no—luxury was all that mattered to them.
*”Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”* I asked, that familiar knot of dread tightening in my chest.
*”Don’t worry, Mum, it’s just temporary,”* James insisted. *”We’ll find a new place in a week.”*
A week? That didn’t sound so bad. Of course, I agreed—what mother wouldn’t help her son? If only I’d known the storm I was inviting in. Chloe wasn’t just ungrateful; she was insufferable.
A week came and went, but James and Chloe showed no sign of leaving. They settled in as if it were their home. James stopped pretending to flat-hunt, and Chloe? She did nothing. No cooking, no cleaning—not even washing up after herself. Living rent-free, and not an ounce of respect for the effort it took to keep the house running!
Chloe didn’t work. While James was out, she lazed about—off to gossip with her mates or glued to the telly. Her idleness grated on me. Months passed. One day, I finally snapped:
*”Chloe, why not look for a job? Bit of money wouldn’t hurt, would it?”*
She flared up like a firework.
*”We know how to live our lives! Mind your own business!”*
I was stunned. Here I was, paying for everything—groceries, utilities, the roof over their heads—and she had the nerve to snap at me? Every time I tried to address it, it ended in shouting matches. I felt like a stranger in my own home.
The breaking point came last week. I walked in after a long shift, craving peace—only to find the telly blaring, James and Chloe howling with laughter at some ridiculous reality show. They were having the time of their lives while I was expected to drag myself out of bed at dawn for work.
I couldn’t take it anymore. Storming into the living room, I demanded,
*”How much longer is this going to go on?”*
They gaped at me like I’d lost the plot.
*”I need to sleep! I need rest!”* I tried to explain.
Chloe rolled her eyes.
*”For heaven’s sake, Margaret, don’t start! We’ll switch it off when the show’s over.”*
James chimed in, *”Mum, stop overreacting! What’s got into you?”*
That did it. I snapped. I screamed at them to turn it off *now*. Maybe it would’ve ended there—but then Chloe *giggled*, as if I were some madwoman. That arrogance shattered me.
*”Pack your things and get out!”* I roared. *”You’re not staying another night!”*
I turned to leave, but Chloe’s scoff followed me. That was it. I didn’t wait. I grabbed bin bags and started shoving in their clothes, shoes, anything I could reach. They protested, stammered excuses—but I was done.
*”If you’re not gone in five minutes, I’m calling the police!”*
The bags went flying out the front door. James and Chloe begged, but I didn’t listen. I took back my keys, slammed the door, and—for the first time in months—breathed properly.
I don’t know where they went—maybe to friends, maybe Chloe’s parents. They’ll land on their feet, they always do. But I refuse to be treated like a doormat anymore. No regrets. It might have been harsh, but my house is *mine* again. And so is my life.
