What’s the hardest part about life?

Some people might say going to work, keeping a house running, or paying the bills. For me, the hardest thing I’ve ever done is raise four children, two of them on the spectrum.

I’m tired—not just physically, but mentally and spiritually too.

My youngest is 18, and his girlfriend moved in with us. At first, things were fine. Then came the extra mess: cigarette butts by the front door, missing cups, plates left in the living room and garden, overflowing bins, rubbish on the landing, shopping paid for with my money, food bank trips, and endless lifts.

Slowly, the house stopped feeling like a home and became somewhere I was expected to fund, clean, and tolerate. Jobs around the house went undone unless money changed hands. The respect disappeared. My car keys were hidden. My car was taken without permission. Arguments became normal.

Then came the damage: broken lights, smashed belongings, and a home I had worked hard for left looking like the aftermath of a storm.

Some people tell me I’m a “bad mummy” for ending this. They don’t understand. They haven’t seen the way he throws things, manipulates situations, or pushes and pushes until he gets his way. They don’t know what it’s like to live with constant tension, wondering what might be broken next. They haven’t had to calculate the cost of “keeping the peace” every single day.

By setting this boundary, I stopped participating in a situation where his wants consistently took priority over my safety and mental wellbeing. That made him unhappy, and outsiders who don’t know the full story are quick to judge. But I wasn’t failing as a mother; I was trying to survive a situation that was slowly destroying me.

Moving him out wasn’t an act of abandonment.

It was an act of survival.

For the last month, I even let him stop paying his keep. I gave everything I could—time, money, and energy. But my mental health began to crumble, and eventually it all became too much. I lost my temper. Things were said that can never be unsaid.

Now they’re living with her nan.

When they left, the silence felt strange.

Then it felt like peace.

For the first time in more than thirty years, the house is quiet. Just me and Kee. I’ve moved out of the box room and into his old bedroom. It feels like the house finally belongs to me again.

Am I heartbroken?

Yes and no.

Yes, because he’s my son. Because no matter how old they get, they’re still your babies. Because nobody has children expecting that one day they’ll be sitting in a silent house, wondering where it all went wrong.

I miss my little boy.

I miss who he used to be.

But I struggle with the angry, controlling young man he has become.

And no, because I can’t spend the rest of my life feeling like a guest in my own home. I can’t keep setting myself on fire to keep everyone else warm.

Some people will think I’m horrible. They’re entitled to that opinion. But they didn’t live it. They didn’t carry it. They didn’t lie awake at night wondering how much more they could give.

For once, my mental health comes first. After more than thirty years of putting everyone else’s needs ahead of my own, I don’t think that’s such a terrible thing.

This isn’t the ending I imagined.

It isn’t the life I pictured when I first held him in my arms.

But sometimes love has to step back before it destroys the person giving it.

I am heartbroken.

I am healing.

And for the first time in a long time,

I can breathe, even with a broken heart. ❤️