I let my son and his family stay with me “temporarily,” not realizing what awaited me. But one action by my son turned my whole life upside down…

When my son called me on Wednesday evening, I immediately sensed the tension in his voice. “Mom, we have problems with our apartment—there’s a leaky roof, the repairs will take a while. Can we stay with you for a couple of weeks? A month at most.” I didn’t even hesitate. “Of course, come over!” I said, already planning in my mind how I would clear out the second room, buy toys for the children, and cook their favorite meals.

They arrived Saturday morning. Two large bags, three boxes of belongings, and two children—a five-year-old grandson and a three-year-old granddaughter. My daughter-in-law was the first to enter, she quickly looked around the apartment and nodded, “Well, it’s nothing, we’ll make do.” I smiled and bustled about, showing them where everything was, brewing coffee. The kids immediately started running around the hallway, shouting, they knocked over a vase of flowers. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said, wiping up the water, “they’re just kids.”

The first three days were almost pleasant. I prepared breakfasts, lunches, and dinners—big, family ones, like in the past when my son was little. We sat at the table, talked, laughed. I felt needed, useful. “This is what family is all about,” I thought to myself, falling asleep tired but content.

But on the fourth day, I began to notice little things. My daughter-in-law didn’t tidy up after the kids—toys were scattered all over the apartment, crumbs on the couch, juice spilled on the floor. When I tried to hint, she waved it off: “Oh, I’ll clean up later, don’t worry.” Later never came.

My son started coming home late. When I asked, “Where have you been?” he answered briefly, “Business.” My daughter-in-law spent all day on her phone, while the kids clung to me: “Grandma, play with us,” “Grandma, feed us,” “Grandma, read to us.” I couldn’t manage to rest—whenever I sat down, someone needed something.

After a week, they began rearranging the furniture. “Mom, the table is inconvenient here, we’ll just move it a bit,” my son said and, without waiting for a reply, moved it. Then they removed my photos from the wall—”they bother the kids.” Then they took over my favorite cabinet—”we have nowhere to put our things.”

I kept quiet. I told myself, “It’s temporary. Another week, at most two, and they’ll leave.”

But a month passed. Then a second. When I timidly asked, “How’s the repair going?” my son answered irritably, “Mom, don’t rush me, it’s all in progress.” And one day my daughter-in-law said, “You know, it’s convenient for us here. You’re alone anyway, why do you need such a big apartment? We could stay longer.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Longer”—how long? Six months? A year? Forever?

My home stopped being mine. In the morning, I woke up to the children’s cries. During the day, I couldn’t rest—constant noise, running around, demands. In the evening, my son and daughter-in-law would go into “their” room, closing the door, while I was left alone in the kitchen, finishing the cold dinner that no one had really appreciated.

I couldn’t invite a friend over—”the kids need quiet for their nap.” I couldn’t watch my favorite show—”we’re watching cartoons.” I couldn’t go to bed earlier—in the evening, my daughter-in-law would turn on the washing machine, and the noise wouldn’t let me sleep.

Gradually, I became a servant in my own home. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, childcare—it all fell on me. “Mom, you’re home, it’s not hard for you,” my son said when I tried to ask for help.

And then one day I returned from the store earlier than usual. I went to my bedroom—to get my wallet, which I’d forgotten in the morning. I opened the drawer of the nightstand where I kept money—my savings, which I’d been accumulating for three years. Small, but important to me. Little by little each month, dreaming of going to the sea, buying myself a new coat, maybe renovating the bathroom.

The money was gone.

I froze. Counted everything again, overturned the drawer. Empty. Four thousand euros—gone.

My heart was pounding so hard that my ears buzzed. I went to the kitchen, where my daughter-in-law was feeding the children. My voice trembled, “Have you seen… in my nightstand… there was money.”

She didn’t even look up from the plate: “I haven’t seen it.”

I waited for the evening. When my son came, I called him into the kitchen. “I need to talk.” He sat down, rubbing his face wearily: “What happened?”

— I’ve lost some money.

— What money?

— From the nightstand. All my savings.

He paused. Then sighed. “Mom, I took it. As a loan.”

I didn’t immediately understand what I heard. “You… took? Without asking?”

— Mom, we needed it urgently. I thought you wouldn’t mind. We’re family, after all.

— You stole my money?

— What do you mean “stole”? — he raised his voice. — I borrowed it! I’ll return it!

— When?

— When I can! I don’t know! We have expenses right now, kids, repairs…

— You’ve been living with me rent-free for three months! I feed you, wash your clothes, look after the children! And you still take my last money?!

— “Last”? — he sneered. — Oh, come on, mom. Your pension comes in every month. You’ll save up again.

I looked at him and didn’t recognize him. This was my son. My child, whom I gave birth to, raised, to whom I devoted my entire life. And he sat before me, calmly explaining why he had the right to take my money without asking.

— Return it, — I whispered.

— Mom, I told you, I can’t right now.

— Return the money and leave.

He stood up abruptly, the chair screeched. “So, you’re throwing us out? Your own son? Your grandchildren?”

— I’m asking you to leave.

— You’re selfish, — he spat out. — You’ve always thought only of yourself. We came to you to be closer, so you could spend time with your grandchildren, and you’re worried about money!

He left, slamming the door. I was alone in the kitchen, and for the first time in three months, I cried.

They didn’t leave. Another week passed. My son stopped talking to me. My daughter-in-law looked at me with disdain. The kids continued to scream and destroy everything around. And I sat in the corner of my own apartment and thought, “How did it come to this?”

I realized that my kindness, my desire to help, my fear of offending my son—all of it turned against me. I let them stay for “a couple of weeks” and lost my home, my money, my peace.

Worst of all was the realization: my son felt no guilt. He thought he had the right. That I owed it to him. That I am his mother, and thus obliged to give everything without reserve.

It took me another two months to muster up the courage to insist on their leaving. I wrote my son an official letter. He called me a monster. My daughter-in-law told all the relatives how cruel I was. But they left.

When the door closed behind them, I sat on the floor in the empty hallway and for the first time in half a year felt a sense of relief. Silence. My home. My space.

He never returned the money. The contact with my son almost completely ceased. But I learned the main thing: loving your close ones doesn’t mean giving everything, including yourself. Kindness must have boundaries. And trust, once broken, is almost impossible to restore.

Now I live alone. Quietly. Peacefully. And I know: I’ll never let anyone stay “temporarily” again if it threatens my home and my peace.

Have you ever encountered a close person using your kindness? How did you find the strength to set boundaries and reclaim your life?

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I let my son and his family stay with me “for a while, while their renovation was going on”. Two weeks turned into three months, my home stopped feeling like mine, and I became a free babysitter, cook, and cleaner, but I endured it, telling myself, “it’s family, it’s only temporary”. I tried not to notice how they took over my house, ignored my requests, and used my things as they pleased. But one day I came home earlier than usual, and one action by my son turned my entire life upside down…
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