I let my son and his wife move into my flat when their lives hit a rough patch. But instead of gratitude, they started arguing, acting rude, and trying to impose their own rules. This is *my* home, and I won’t stand for anyone else calling the shots. Things will be done my way, full stop.
My son, Oliver, decided to marry before finishing university. I begged him not to rush, warned him—it was too soon, he needed to stand on his own feet first, make something of himself. But he wouldn’t hear it. *”I’m an adult, I know what’s best,”* he snapped. Well, fine, I thought. His life, his choice. After his father passed, I inherited a flat in an older part of Manchester and put it in Oliver’s name. He and his wife, Gemma, moved in straight after the wedding.
The flat wasn’t new, no fancy renovations, but it was liveable. They settled in for a year before someone put the idea in their heads to *”invest in property.”* They sold the flat I’d given them, added money from Gemma’s parents—who insisted young couples needed support. I was stunned. I’d handed them a proper home! I could’ve rented it out and had a comfortable retirement. But no, they took the gamble. Paid a fortune for a flat that didn’t even exist yet—construction hadn’t even started.
Fine. Their choice. They rented a place while waiting for their *”dream home”* to be built. Everything was smooth until the market crashed.
Gemma lost her job and couldn’t find anything decent with decent pay. Their budget collapsed. Then they asked to stay with me. Not with suitcases in hand—no, they asked politely first. I couldn’t refuse my son. I opened my doors but set rules straight away. Lights out by ten—no noise after. The telly stays on during the day—I like the background hum. No dirty dishes left out, and everything kept tidy. They nodded, seeming agreeable.
At first, it was bearable. If I pointed something out, they fixed it. But soon, they clearly tired of accommodating me. The arguments started, the snide remarks, then outright attempts to dictate *their* rules.
*”Mum, really? It’s just one cup, I’ll wash it later! Turn the telly off, we can’t relax!”* Oliver would huff.
*”Why do you clean every day? Just buy a Roomba!”* Gemma would chip in. *”You waste so much time, the place is spotless anyway.”*
*”You don’t *have* to wake at seven on weekends! Your hoovering wakes us up!”* my son scolded.
Their resentment grew like a snowball. Eye rolls when I asked them to clear the table, muttering if the telly was on too loud. *My* flat became a battlefield where I, the owner, had to justify myself. I snapped one evening.
*”Pack your things. Get out.”*
Oliver stared at me like I’d slapped him.
*”You’re throwing your own son out over some *rules*? You know how rough things are! We need help!”*
*”People who need help show *gratitude* and respect the home they’re in—not stomp around like they own it!”* I snapped. *”I made my terms clear from the start.”*
*”Cheers, Mum. Real *helpful*,”* he spat, storming off to pack.
Probably expected me to beg them to stay, let them run the place. Not a chance. I wasn’t asking for anything unreasonable. Sure, maybe they found it inconvenient—but so did I, sharing my space. I’d made a sacrifice letting them in, and they acted like it was *theirs*.
I won’t bend to anyone in my own home—not even my son. He knew what I was like, knew my thoughts on Gemma. If they didn’t like it, they could go boss around in their own place. I’d visit and start giving *them* orders—see how they liked it.
They left, slamming the door. Don’t know where they are now, don’t care. This is *my* home, *my* life, and I won’t let anyone take that from me.
