My son Jake called me last week to say he is struggling financially and needs to come home while he gets his act together. He is 32 and earns a good salary working in sales. However, his immature attitude towards money means he still hits his overdraft limit before payday each month and can now no longer afford to live in his gaudy rented apartment.
From the tone of the call, Jake wasn’t asking if he could move in with me, he was simply informing me of his plans. What upset me even more was that this would be the fifth time he had returned home after continuing to live beyond his means. And I’ve heard several versions of this same sad story from my two adult children.
I have only recently been able to call my home again after getting rid of Laura, 29, a retail store manager, who moved out for the fourth time after falling out with her housemates.
Like her brother, she makes good money, but has a knack for overspending and seems incapable of managing her finances sensibly like the adult she is. She has returned twice after running up credit card debt.
In fact, they both treat the family home as a free hotel where they can stay whenever they want, with cleaning service included.
This is the fifth time my 32-year-old son has come back like a boomerang, and I only got rid of my daughter Laura after she came back for the second time, reveals an anonymous person
They make a mess in my kitchen, leave wet towels on the bathroom floor, wake me up when they come home drunk, and expect me to cook their favorite meals and do their laundry like I did when they were kids.
As much as I love them, I don’t enjoy living with them as adults, especially after discovering how peaceful life is when they have their own place. The problem is that I hate confrontation; instead of telling them that I’m upset by the way they use my house (and me), I just sulk silently. But this can’t continue.
So I’ve taken a drastic measure that will force them both to finally grow up and stand on their own: I’m downsizing.
I will soon be trading my beautiful 1930s three-bedroom detached house, with its spacious rooms and large garden that I have always loved, for a tiny one-bedroom cottage with a lounge so cosy you couldn’t fit a cat in it.
And that’s precisely the point. This new place is big enough for me, and only me, which means I can no longer fly home to Mom every time life in the real world doesn’t work out for my kids.
Not only will there be no children in my new home, but I will also have to remove all of their belongings. As any parent who has ever welcomed a boomerang child knows, it is not just them that are expected to be accommodated.
They invariably turn up with furniture, suitcases full of clothes, as well as endless boxes of kitchen utensils, cushions and who knows what else.
Half of these boxes are never opened again. I am expected to absorb them all, to make room in the garage, in the attic, and under various beds. Then they come out again, unhindered, to start over, expecting me to store their stuff indefinitely.
Well, not anymore. The new house only has room for my stuff. If they don’t take theirs now, it’s all going to the dumpster. So when Jake called me last week, confident that he could sneak back home, I told him that the days of being able to rinse his mother out in exchange for free room and board were over.
I had already warned him and Laura that I was planning to move to a smaller house, a plan they both had objected to, saying it would break their hearts to think of someone else living in their childhood home.
Instead of explaining the real reason, I lied and told them that I needed to sell my house because, since their father had moved out of the house five years ago after we divorced, I could no longer afford to run a family home alone. I don’t think either of them believed I would ever do that.
But a cash buyer offered the full asking price within days of the “For Sale” sign going up. And my own offer on the cottage I loved was just accepted. With no strings attached to either sale, I could move in within weeks.
I could almost hear the gears turning in Jake’s brain as he processed this information and its implications for him.
Stunned silence quickly gave way to apoplexy. “But that cabin only has one bedroom,” he stammered. “Where will I sleep? Where will I put my things?”
He looked upset, but instead of feeling guilty, I was relieved to be able to get out just in time. I would never have been able to do this if one of them still lived with me.
Not that selling has been an easy decision to make. At 62, I am downsizing years earlier than I really want or need to. I love this house, which I have lived in for more than three decades: it is where I raised my family and is full of happy memories.
My neighbours are lovely, the mortgage is paid off and my teacher’s pension allows me to comfortably pay for the heating and lighting of the place. Taking care of the garden has always been a pleasure.
I could almost hear the gears in Jake’s brain turning. “But that cabin only has one bedroom,” he stammered. “Where will I sleep? Where will I put my stuff?”
And even though I’ve lived here alone (some of the time, anyway) since my ex-husband, Andy, left home, I don’t feel like I’m floundering around. I often entertain family and friends in my dining room. I’ll miss having the space to do that.
But at my age I need to be able to call my home my own.
Especially since I’ve only recently entered the dating world and would like the option of bringing someone home without the risk of having adult children waiting for me if I do. Laura came with me the first time I saw the new place and was horrified by how small it is. “It’s not for you, Mom,” she told me, as she looked in dismay at the cozy living room, kitchen, and its one bedroom (the current owners used the second to expand the bathroom, which suits me just fine). “It would be much better if you stayed.”
She must have told all this to Jake, and they both assumed I just believed her, because no one ever asked me again about downsizing. Meanwhile, I quietly went ahead with the sale of my house.
I knew those selfish people didn’t care about me: all they cared about was being deprived of the comfort of knowing they always had my house as a refuge.
And the way I see it, that mindset prevents them from gaining a proper adult understanding of how the world works.
When Jake first came home seven years ago at age 25, we felt it was a good idea to welcome him back. He moved in with his girlfriend at age 23. They got engaged but split up two years later, thankfully before any wedding plans were made.
I was heartbroken. Andy and I were still together at the time and we were glad we could help him recover.
But we made things too easy, because it seemed to set him into a pattern of leaving and coming back, overspending instead of saving for his future, a habit he can’t seem to break.
And since I was the one left in the family home after the divorce, while Andy moved too far away for the kids to be interested in living with him, I’ve had to bear that burden.
Today, Jake’s idea of making a living would be an insult to anyone who was really struggling.
He eats out at least three times a week and parties with his friends most weekends, sometimes abroad during the summer.
Six months ago he bought a car on credit – a practically new BMW – even though the five-year-old Audi he had finally paid off had no problems.
I wondered if I could afford the payments, which had to be substantial, plus the rent on a luxury canal-side apartment.
“I’m older now, Mom,” she said wryly. “I think I know what I can afford and what I can’t.” Clearly not.
Now, the lease is up and he can’t renew it. Judging by that phone call, he’d rather live with me than downsize or reduce his social relationships in order to live independently. How depressing.
Laura left home at 24 to live with a boyfriend she had met two months earlier, but came back home three weeks later when she realized they had nothing in common. I didn’t mind her coming back after what seemed like a life lesson.
He left again a year later, but got into trouble. He came home, moved out, and did the same thing again.
Most recently, she shared a house with some friends, but there was some kind of disagreement, so she returned home for three weeks to calm down.
She’s back in her own place now, but if things go wrong, I doubt she’ll try to fix them herself if she knows it would be easier to move back in with me.
My friends have had mixed reactions to my decision to sell my house. Some think it’s a great decision: less housework and more financial security thanks to the considerable profits I’m making by buying such a small place.
With the money I’ve saved I’ll be able to afford a fantastic holiday. M&S food hall, here I come.
Others are sure I will miss having so much space. “And what will happen when the grandchildren come?” one asked recently. “Where will you put them?”
“That’s highly unlikely to happen while my kids are babies,” I replied.
I do have a plan B in that regard though. Unless I love living in such a small place, it doesn’t have to be a permanent move.
I have a good financial advisor and will carefully invest the profits I make from this move so that if I need more space, I can buy something a little bigger.
Surely, in a few years, Jake and Laura will have learned that they can face life’s challenges without having to come home to me every five minutes.
And I’ll be able to have a spare bedroom without anyone keeping an eye on it.
Now that I’m shrinking, what choice do they have but to finally grow?
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