I raised my son alone, hoping he’d be my support, but he and his wife turned into nothing but a burden.
I gave my life to my son—raised him all by myself, sacrificing everything to make sure he grew up right. But instead of gratitude or help, all I got was laziness, indifference, and betrayal. The boy I loved more than anything, and his wife, have become a weight I can’t carry anymore. Now I’m torn—do I kick them out or keep putting up with them, watching what little strength I have left disappear?
My name’s Margaret, and I live in a little town up in Yorkshire. My son, Oliver, was a blessing when he was young—kind, well-behaved, never any trouble. I was a single mum, working two jobs just to give him a good life. I dreamed he’d grow up to be my rock, that he’d look after me like I did him. But those dreams came crashing down when he got older.
After school, Oliver refused to go to university. “Mum, it’s not for me,” he said, then joined the army. I hoped it’d make him more responsible—that he’d come back hungry to build a future. But when he returned, I only saw disappointment. Study? “Can’t be bothered.” Work? “Only if it’s easy.” His expectations were impossible—big wages, no effort, nothing too hard. He got a job at a warehouse but quit after a month. “Just not my thing.” Half a year, he did nothing, sitting around while I fed him, bought his clothes, paid his way—all on my tiny pension when I could barely afford my own bills.
Then Oliver brought home his wife—Scarlet, an eighteen-year-old girl who didn’t work and had no plans to. The nerve of her—acting like the world owed her everything, even though she had no qualifications, no ambition. Of course, they moved in with me. My little flat, already cramped, became a battleground. I tried to talk to them—asked them to clean up, do something, anything—but every word just made them angry. “Mum, we’ll sort ourselves out!” Oliver would snap. Scarlet would roll her eyes and nod along. Every word felt like a slap in the face after all I’d done.
One day, I cracked. “Sort yourselves out somewhere else, then!” I shouted. “I can’t feed both of you on my pension! I’m barely managing, and you’re just leeching off me!” My voice shook with anger and hurt. I gave them till the end of the month to pack up and go. Oliver looked wounded, Scarlet huffed—but neither argued. Still, deep down, I’m terrified—what if they refuse to leave? How do I deal with my own child like this?
I’m torn between love for Oliver and pure fairness. He’s my blood, my boy—the one I gave up everything for. But now? He doesn’t think of me. His laziness, his selfishness, his choice to marry someone just as careless—it all feels like a betrayal. Scarlet makes it worse—she doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean, lives off me like it’s my duty to pay her way. I watch my life waste away trying to carry them both, and it’s breaking my heart.
What do I do? Kick them out—lose my son forever. Let them stay—lose myself instead. Every day, I look at Oliver and search for the boy I loved. But all I see is a stranger who’s forgotten what it means to be grateful. My hope for his support is gone, and now I’m standing on the edge, wondering if I’ve got the strength to do what needs doing.
