A week ago, I asked my son and his wife to leave—and I haven’t regretted it for a moment.
They moved in without asking after getting evicted for unpaid rent. I let them stay for “just a week,” but it quickly turned into a free ride. Chloe didn’t work, barely lifted a finger, and Timothy stopped looking for a new place.
I’d come home from long shifts to a filthy flat, no dinner, and loud TV. They didn’t contribute a thing—not to the bills, not to the chores.
I held my tongue as long as I could. But last Friday, drained and fed up, I snapped. They acted like I was the problem. That night, I packed their bags and told them to go.
I don’t know where they are now, and frankly, I don’t care. For the first time in months, my home is quiet. I have peace, rest—and my dignity.
I’m his mother, yes. But I’m not anyone’s maid.