I let my son and his wife move into my flat when their lives hit a rough patch. Instead of gratitude, they started laying down their own rules, arguing, and giving me cheek. This is *my* home, and I won’t have anyone else calling the shots here. What I say goes, end of.
My son, Oliver, decided to get married before finishing university. I begged him not to rush, warning him—wait, get on your feet first, achieve something. But he wouldn’t hear a word of it. “I’m an adult, I know what’s best,” he snapped. Fair enough, I thought. His life, his mistakes. After his father passed, I inherited a flat in an old 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 or fancy, but it was perfectly livable. They spent a year settling in, then someone put this harebrained idea in their heads about “investing in property.” They sold the flat *I’d* given them, threw in money from Gemma’s parents—who insisted young couples needed help—and plunged into a brand-new development. I was stunned. I’d handed them a whole flat! I could’ve rented it out and lived comfortably in retirement. But no, they wanted to gamble. Paid a fortune for a flat that didn’t even exist yet—construction had barely started.
Fine. Their choice. They rented somewhere cheap and waited for their “dream home” to materialize. Everything was smooth until the economy took a nosedive.
Gemma lost her job and couldn’t find anything decent paying. Their budget collapsed. So, they asked to stay with me. Not that they turned up unannounced—no, they asked politely first. But how could I say no to my own son? I opened my door, though I laid down the rules straightaway. Lights out by ten—no noise after. The telly stays on during the day—I like the background hum. No dirty dishes left lying about, and keep the place tidy. They nodded, all smiles and agreement.
At first, it was manageable. If I pointed something out, they fixed it. But soon, they must’ve grown tired of humoring me. The nitpicking started, then the lectures, and before long—full-blown attempts to run *my* household.
“Mum, honestly, it’s just a mug, I’ll wash it later! Turn the telly off, we can’t relax!” Oliver would huff.
“Why clean every single day? Get a robot hoover! You’re wasting time—it’s spotless already,” Gemma chimed in.
“No need to wake up at 7 a.m. on weekends! You’re banging about with the hoover at the crack of dawn!” my son scolded.
Their complaints piled up like overdue bills. Eyes rolled when I asked for the kitchen to stay tidy, mutters if the telly was on too loud. My flat became a battleground where *I*, the owner, had to justify myself. My patience snapped one evening. I’d had enough.
“Pack your things and go,” I said flatly.
Oliver gaped at me like I’d slapped him.
“You’re throwing out your own son over a few silly rules?! You *know* we’re struggling! We *need* help!”
“People who need help say *thank you* and respect the house they’re in—they don’t redecorate it to their taste!” I shot back. “I spelled it out from the start.”
“Cheers for the *support*, Mum!” he sneered, storming off to pack.
Probably expected me to grovel, beg them to stay, let them take over. Not a chance. I wasn’t asking for the moon. Yes, maybe my ways cramped their style—but sharing *my* home wasn’t exactly a picnic for me either. I’d made a sacrifice letting them in, and they acted like *they* owned the place.
I won’t tiptoe around anyone in my own home—not even my son. He knew exactly how I felt about Gemma from the beginning. If they don’t like it? Off they pop to their own place to play king and queen there. *Then* I’ll visit and start rearranging *their* cutlery drawer—see how they like it.
They left, slamming the door. No idea where they are now—don’t much care, either. This is *my* home, *my* life, and I won’t let anyone steal that from me.