That evening, I closed the door behind my son and his wife and retrieved my apartment keys—I’d reached my breaking point.
A week ago I asked them to leave, and I don’t regret it. They’d pushed too far. I came home from work utterly exhausted and discovered Chloe slicing ham and Timothy calmly reading the newspaper.
“Hello, Mum! Thought we’d pop by,” Timothy said cheerily—except they hadn’t just popped by. They’d moved in without asking. They’d been evicted for failing to pay rent, despite my warnings to live modestly. Timothy brushed off my concern, promising they’d be gone in a week. I let it slide, hoping things would change.
They still hadn’t left after two weeks. Instead, they treated my home like their own—Chloe unemployed, lounging around or out with friends, while I came home to mess, no dinner, piles of dirty dishes, and sticky floors. They contributed nothing to bills or groceries.
Soft hints (“Maybe get a job, Chloe?”) were met with scorn: “We’ll sort ourselves out. Butt out!” I retreated to my room, resentment building.
Last Friday, after another draining day at work, I came home to them lounging like royalty, TV blaring, snacks crunching. I’d had enough. I demanded quiet, but they shrugged, ignored me, and told me not to start. I snapped: “Turn. It. Off. Now.” They ignored me again. That was it.
“Right. You’re out tomorrow. I’m done,” I declared. They protested, but I didn’t care. I shoved their suitcases, warned Timothy I’d call the police if they didn’t leave. Thirty minutes later they were gone, and I removed their keys and locked the door.
I don’t know where they are now—maybe with Chloe’s parents or friends. But for the first time in months, I could breathe again. No guilt. My home, peace, rest, freedom, and my self‑respect restored. I’m a mother—not a free B&B or maid. I’ve earned the right to peace in my own home.