That night, I threw my son and his wife out of the house and took back the keys: The moment I realized I couldn’t take it anymore
My heart still pounds as if I’ve run a marathon. A week ago, I kicked my own son and his wife out of my home. And you know what? I don’t regret a single thing. They brought this on themselves. Coming home from work that fateful evening, I walked into chaos I could no longer tolerate. There was a time I’d have been overjoyed to see my son, but everything had changed.
Six months ago, my life was turned upside down. Exhausted after my shift, I unlocked the door to my flat in an old building on the outskirts of Manchester and froze. Sitting at the kitchen table were my son, Thomas, and his wife, Gemma. She was slicing ham while he scrolled lazily through his phone. When he spotted me, Thomas flashed a grin:
“Hey, Mum! Thought we’d pop round for a bit.”
I was pleased—what mother wouldn’t be? But soon, I realised this wasn’t just a visit. Thomas and Gemma hadn’t “popped round”—they intended to stay. Turned out, they’d been evicted from their rented flat for not paying. I wasn’t surprised. How many times had I warned them? If you can’t afford a swanky place in the city centre, find somewhere cheaper! But no, they insisted on stylish decor and a posh postcode.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” I asked, a knot of unease tightening in my chest.
“Mum, it’s just temporary,” Thomas assured me. “I’ll find somewhere new—we’ll be out in a week.”
A week? That wasn’t forever, I thought. Of course, I agreed. I’m his mother—I had to help. If only I’d known how much I’d regret that decision. Gemma wasn’t just a guest—she was a walking disaster. Her sheer audacity stunned me.
The week passed, but Thomas and Gemma showed no signs of leaving. They settled into my flat like it was their own. Thomas stopped even pretending to search for somewhere else. I bit my tongue, not wanting to stir trouble. But Gemma’s behaviour wore me down more each day. She did nothing around the house. Never cooked dinner, never tidied up—let alone scrubbed a floor or washed a dish. Living for free, the least she could do was show some respect!
Gemma didn’t work. While Thomas was out, she lounged about—off to see a mate or glued to the telly. Her idleness grated on me. A month passed. Then another. Finally, I snapped:
“Gemma, maybe it’s time you looked for a job? You’d have money—and something to do.”
She flared up like a struck match:
“We know how to live our lives! Keep your nose out!”
I was speechless. So, I was bankrolling them—paying their bills, feeding them, giving them a roof—and I was meant to stay quiet? Every remark I made ended in a row. I felt my own life slipping from my grasp.
The breaking point came a week ago. I came home after work, craving peace. Instead, I heard the telly blaring from the living room. Thomas and Gemma were howling with laughter at some daft reality show. Having a grand old time, while I had to be up at six for another bloody shift.
I’d had enough. Storming in, I snapped:
“How long is this going to go on?”
They gaped at me like I’d grown horns.
“Don’t you think I deserve some rest? I need sleep!” I tried to reason.
Gemma rolled her eyes:
“Margaret, don’t start! We’ll turn it off when the show’s over.”
Thomas chimed in:
“Mum, stop overreacting! What’s your problem now?”
That was it. I exploded. Screamed at them to turn it off right that second. Maybe it would’ve ended there—but Gemma started giggling, like I was some kind of joke. Her smugness was the last straw.
“Pack your things and get out!” I roared. “I want you gone by morning!”
I turned to leave, but Gemma snorted. That did it. I wasn’t waiting until morning. I grabbed three bags and started shoving in their clothes, shoes—anything of theirs I could find. They protested, spluttering excuses, but I wasn’t backing down.
“Leave now, or I’m calling the police!” I threatened.
The bags went flying out the door. Thomas and Gemma tried to apologise, but I was done. I took back my keys and slammed the door shut. For the first time in months, I could breathe.
I don’t know where they went—crashing with mates or Gemma’s parents, probably. They’ve got plenty of people to mooch off. But I won’t let them walk over me again. No regrets. Maybe it was harsh, but I took back my home. My life.
