I allowed my son and his wife to live with me for a while, but after six months I grew tired of their constant rules, and my patience finally ran out when they threw my cat out of the house 😯😱
At first, everything seemed normal. My son is twenty-six, his wife is twenty-four. They fell in love, got married, but they don’t have money for their own place. Even hearing about a mortgage is scary — the interest rates are such that you’d be paying it off until retirement. I was the one who said, “Stay with me. The apartment is big, three rooms. Save up calmly, and then you’ll figure things out.”
I thought I was doing the right thing. I’m a mother, I should help. I imagined we would have dinner together, discuss the news, sometimes bake pies on weekends. Naive of me.
Marina walked into my home with a confident stride, as if she were doing me a favor with her presence. The first few weeks they behaved quietly, almost perfectly. They asked if they could take a towel, carefully closed the doors.
Then everything began to change.
One day I came home from work, and the kitchen felt like it wasn’t mine. The spice jars that had stood in the same place for ten years were gone. A coffee machine was shining on the table.
— Lena, have you seen the sugar bowl? — I asked.
— I rearranged everything, — she answered calmly. — It was chaotic before. Now there’s order. Everything is categorized.
I held back. I thought, let her play housekeeper.
A month later she decided that I eat improperly. Her containers with seeds and greens appeared in the fridge, and my pot of borscht stood in the farthest corner.
— Nina Sergeyevna, did you buy sausage again? — she asked as if I had committed a crime. — It’s unhealthy. We decided to give all that up.
I stood in my own kitchen listening to someone explain what I was allowed to eat.
That evening I spoke to my son.
— Igor, I don’t interfere in your habits. Eat whatever you want. But don’t decide for me.
He sighed.
— Mom, she’s trying. She just wants what’s best for everyone. Be patient a little longer.
I was patient.
Until it reached the bathroom. I came back from the countryside, opened the door — and didn’t recognize it. My bright shower curtain was gone. In its place was a beige piece of fabric. My shampoos were put away in a drawer, her bottles arranged on the shelf like in a display window.
And my soft bath mat had disappeared.
— Where is the mat? — I asked.
— I removed it. It collects dust. It’s unhygienic, — Marina replied calmly.
It wasn’t about the mat. It was about the fact that I was being gradually erased from my own home.
— Put everything back, — I said then. — And don’t touch anything without asking.
She was offended. My son came that evening to explain.
— You hurt her. She wanted to make it look nice.
— Igor, nice is when I’m asked.
After that I stayed at work more and more often. I didn’t want to return to a place where I was being “raised.”
And then something happened that decided everything. I have a cat — Tisha. Old, calm, he has lived with me for ten years.
That evening I came home, and he didn’t greet me. I called — silence.
I went into my son and his wife’s room.
— Where is the cat?
Marina didn’t even lift her head.
— He was bothering me. I locked him on the balcony.
It was December outside. The balcony was cold. I opened the door. Tisha was sitting in the corner, trembling.
At that moment, something inside me snapped. I realized this could not continue any longer and that I needed to show who the real owner of this house was. 😢 I’ll tell you exactly what I did in the first comment 👇👇
I went back into the room.
— Pack your things, — I said calmly.
I returned to the room and looked at them calmly.
— Are you working tomorrow? — I asked.
— Yes. Why? — my son asked in surprise.
— Nothing.
I didn’t sleep that night. The cat lay beside me, warm, alive, and everything in my head became perfectly clear. My home is my home.
In the morning they left. I called a locksmith and changed the locks. Then I packed their belongings. I put their coffee machine on top so they wouldn’t forget it.
Before they came back, I transferred money to my son — for the first month’s rent and the deposit. Enough to get started.
In the evening the phone rang.
— Mom, the door won’t open, — he said confused.
— I know.
— What does that mean?
— It means you’re adults. I helped as much as I could. From now on, you’re on your own.
— Are you kicking us out?
— No. I’m giving you a chance to live separately. In my house, no one will teach me how to live anymore.
He was silent. Marina was whispering something indignantly beside him.
— Mom, we could have talked.
— I’ve been talking for a whole year.
A few minutes later, the suitcases rustled down the stairs.
I closed the door, put the mat back in its place, poured myself some tea, and for the first time in a long while felt that I was truly living in my own home again.
