My heart still pounds every time I think about what happened. Just a week ago, I told my son and his wife to pack their things and leave my house—and I haven’t looked back since. There’s not an ounce of regret in me. They pushed me far beyond my limit, and I’d finally had enough.
I live in a quiet northern town near York, tucked away where the pace is slow and the evenings are peaceful. Or at least, they were—until James and Chloe turned my home into their personal crash pad.
It started six months ago. I came home from my shift at the local library, tired but content, only to walk through the front door and find the pair of them sitting in my kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world. Chloe was slicing cheese, and James was glued to his phone.
James looked up and grinned. “Hey, Mum! Thought we’d swing by for a bit.”
I was surprised, of course—but pleased, too. My son was here. Then came the truth. They’d been evicted from their flat in the city centre for not paying rent. I wasn’t shocked—I’d warned them plenty of times that their lifestyle was too extravagant for their income. But they’d always insisted on living somewhere fancy, with cathedral views and high ceilings.
“Why didn’t you call me first?” I asked, a knot forming in my stomach.
“Mum, it’s only temporary. We’ll find a place within a week,” James assured me.
And I believed him. Of course I did—he’s my son. I thought, one week won’t kill me. I can help them get back on their feet.
What a fool I was.
That one week stretched into two. Then three. Before I knew it, months had passed, and they hadn’t made a single move toward finding a new place. James gave up looking altogether. And Chloe? She acted like she was royalty. She didn’t lift a finger—no job, no chores, just lounging around, going out with her friends, or binge-watching shows on my sofa. Every time I came home from work, the house was a mess. Dishes piled in the sink. Crumbs everywhere. Not once did I come home to a hot meal or a thank you.
“Chloe, love,” I’d say as kindly as I could, “if you’re staying here without paying rent, the least you could do is help out a bit.”
She’d look at me like I’d insulted her. “I’m not your maid,” she’d huff, and off she’d go like she owned the place.
It went on like that for months. I kept biting my tongue, hoping they’d sort themselves out. But it only got worse. One evening I suggested Chloe consider getting a part-time job. She exploded, snapping that they didn’t need life advice from me. James took her side without hesitation. That was the moment I realized—nothing was going to change. I was nothing but a doormat in my own home.
I started to dread coming back each evening. I missed the quiet, the comfort of my space. I’d finish my shift and come home desperate for a moment of calm—a cup of tea, maybe a chapter of my book. But instead, I walked into chaos. Music blaring, laughter echoing through the walls. I felt like a guest in my own house.
The final straw came one night when I went to bed early, needing rest before an early shift. But the television in the lounge was roaring, their laughter filling the halls like a storm. I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw on my robe and stormed into the lounge.
“How long is this going to go on?” I snapped, my voice shaking.
They blinked at me like I’d interrupted something trivial.
“I’ve got work in the morning,” I continued. “Don’t you think I deserve some peace?”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Don’t start, Auntie Margaret. We’ll turn it down in a bit.”
James added, “Mum, seriously. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
And that was it. All the months of pent-up frustration spilled over.
“Turn it off! Now!” I shouted.
They stared at me, stunned. But I was done waiting for respect.
“Get your things. I want you both out by morning.”
They laughed at first, thought I was joking. But I wasn’t. I grabbed bin bags and started tossing in clothes, shoes, anything I could reach. James yelled, trying to calm me down. Chloe smirked like it was a performance. But I meant every word.
“If you’re not gone by tomorrow, I’ll be calling the police.”
I pushed their belongings onto the doorstep, handed them their bags, and slammed the door. I changed the locks the next day and never looked back.
I don’t know where they went after that. Maybe to Chloe’s parents in Leeds. They’ve got friends around—someone surely took them in. But I don’t care. I gave them chance after chance, and they trampled all over me.
That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, I curled up with my book and drank a hot cup of tea in peace. My house felt like mine again.
And you know what? I don’t regret a thing. I deserve peace. I deserve respect. And I won’t let anyone take that from me again.