I invited my son Arman and his wife Lianne to live in my spacious, mortgage-free home. With three kids and another on the way, Lianne was thrilled—until she decided it was “too crowded.” She offered to rent me a small flat, claiming it would ease “everyone’s stress.” When I refused to leave, Arman said I was “holding them back.” Shocked, I felt like a ghost in my own home.
I consulted a lawyer and learned I could evict them as the sole owner. Instead of cooking or babysitting, I reclaimed my space, letting tension build. They soon announced they’d secured me an apartment. I responded by giving them 30 days to move out. They pleaded, but I stood firm. After they left, the house felt empty, so I rented rooms to Yareli, a kind nurse, and her brother Adil.
Slowly, Arman and the kids returned for visits, then dinners. Lianne, initially hostile, confronted Yareli, accusing me of revenge. Over time, after a car accident and honest talks, Lianne admitted she was wrong. We’re not close, but we’re not enemies. They now visit weekly with their new baby, Sabeen. I learned love sometimes means holding your ground. My home was never the issue—just people forgetting what home means.
