My son brought home a girlfriend, and now she’s running the show in my flat.
My name is Margaret, I’m 59, and I live in Brighton. All my life, I’ve tried to be a good mother—kind, patient, understanding. I had my son, James, at 35 after years of hoping, crying, and quiet disappointments before finally seeing those two little lines on the test. He was our miracle, our light.
When he was born, my husband, Edward, and I felt like we’d found a new purpose. We gave him everything—love, warmth, support. He was spoiled rotten, not just by us but by his grandparents too. Sometimes, yes, we overdid it. Teachers would tell us we were indulging him too much—we’d nod, but nothing changed. He was a sweet but fussy boy.
School wasn’t his strong suit. He left after GCSEs and went to college—university was never on the cards. Then, in his final year, tragedy struck: Edward passed away. Suddenly, painfully. I was left alone with James and my elderly mum, who lived with us and helped raise him.
The three of us shared a modest two-bedroom flat. We got by, living simply but in harmony. James worked odd jobs, earning a little—not much, but something. And then… it all fell apart. Two months ago, he brought home Chloe.
She’s not just a girlfriend—she’s a disaster. I won’t judge looks, but Chloe’s got hair in five different colours, a nose ring, arms like a tattoo artist’s sketchbook, and clothes two sizes too small, like she robbed a charity shop. At first, I thought it was temporary—just staying a few days. But no. She moved in. And since then, life’s been pure chaos.
Chloe acts like she owns the place. Helps herself to food, invites over loud, brash mates who laugh like hyenas and hog the bathroom for hours. Worst of all? She does absolutely nothing. Doesn’t cook, clean, or work. Just stares at her phone all day.
I tried talking to James. His response?
*“Me and Chloe are getting married once we’ve saved up. She’s basically my wife already.”*
With what money, exactly? James earns £1,200 a month, and it all vanishes on takeout, gadgets, and god knows what. Meanwhile, Chloe hasn’t even glanced at a job ad. When I gently mentioned that four people in a two-bed flat is a bit much—maybe they should rent their own place—James blew up:
*“Mum, you know we can’t afford that!”*
Cue Chloe bursting into tears—full-on dramatic sobbing. At that point, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I laid it out:
*“You’re living off me. I pay for food, utilities, everything. Meanwhile, you, James, spend your wages like a teenager with his first paycheck. It’s not fair.”*
He half-heartedly agreed, promising he’d find a better job and they’d move out. Foolishly, I was relieved. But a month later? Nothing. Chloe’s still lounging around like a duchess. James brings home takeout—for himself. Mum and I are left scraping by.
I’ve lost patience. Chloe won’t even wash a mug. No shame, no decency. I finally snapped:
*“You’re grown adults—nearly 25! Where’s your respect? Your responsibility? Why am I, a pensioner, carrying you both?”*
James stayed quiet. Chloe pretended she hadn’t heard. My mum, 83, whispers to me at night:
*“Margaret, this isn’t living. You’ve got to do something.”*
But how do I tell my son to leave? Throw out my own child? And if grandkids come along, where are they meant to sleep—on my bedside table?
I’m lost. My heart’s breaking—between anger, loneliness, and helplessness. Is this what I worked for, fought for? I’m terrified I’m losing my son. And while Chloe rules the roost, I’m losing my peace too.
What would you do in my shoes?