When a neighbor’s kid wouldn’t stop pulling pranks, I decided to take a creative approach to put an end to it. It ended up with me dealing with an angry mom and a crying boy. Did I go too far, or did I have every right to act?

Here’s Brad’s story:

For weeks, my neighbor’s son kept ringing my doorbell and running away. When I told his mom about it, she shrugged and said, “He’s just being a boy. You’re overreacting.”

The next morning, the boy came home crying because I had put up a giant Beware of Dog sign taped to my front door. Then I programmed some barking sounds on my phone and played them whenever the doorbell rang.

When I peeked through the window, I saw the boy standing frozen, eyes wide with fear.

Later that evening, his mom sent me a frantic text: “Was that really necessary? He’s been crying all afternoon!”

I just wanted it to stop without having to play games. Did I go overboard?

— Brad

I Kicked Out My Daughter-in-Law and Grandkids After My Son’s Death — My House Is Not a Free Hotel

We recently heard from a woman named Sheryl, a grieving mother whose decision is already dividing our editorial team.

After the tragic death of her son, who left behind a wife and two young children, what Sheryl chose to do next will challenge everything you think you know about family, loyalty, and grief.

Here’s what Sheryl wrote:

I know people will hate me for this, but I need to get it off my chest. Maybe someone will understand.

My son Daniel, 34, died in a car accident three months ago.

He left behind his wife, Amanda, 29, and their two sons, Ethan, 6, and Caleb, 2. They had been living in my house for the last seven years.

They never paid rent. Never helped with the bills. Just… existing, as if my home was some kind of hotel they never planned to leave.

Let me backtrack a little.

When Amanda got pregnant with Ethan, she and Daniel were renting a cramped one-bedroom apartment.

Daniel was finishing his master’s in engineering and working part-time. Amanda was working at a diner while pregnant — exhausted and struggling.

They couldn’t afford the rent, so as a caring mother, I let them move in with me.

My house. My rules.

I told them, “This is only temporary, until you get on your feet.”

That was seven years ago.

Amanda never worked again. Daniel eventually started earning decent money, but instead of moving out, they stayed and got comfortable.

They never paid me a cent or even gave me a thank-you card.

I raised Daniel to be driven and respectful — but he turned into a meek, passive man, following Amanda around like a lovesick puppy.

To be honest, I never trusted her. Not from day one.

Her background was completely different. No father.

She grew up in a trailer. No college degree. Probably never even read a real book.

Daniel treated her like a rescue case, and I smiled and played along — because that’s what mothers do — but deep down, I knew she wasn’t his equal.

And in my gut, I’ve always suspected those kids might not both be his.

Ethan, maybe — he has Daniel’s chin.

But Caleb? That child looks nothing like my son. Dark hair, olive skin, just… different.

Don’t get me wrong, I know how genetics work, but a mother knows.

I’d catch Amanda texting late at night, leaving the house for “walks,” going out without telling anyone. And Daniel, sweet boy, never questioned it.

After the funeral, I waited a few weeks.

I watched Amanda drifting around the house in her bathrobe, crying like a soap-opera widow.

I was the one who cooked, cleaned, and got Ethan to school. Amanda did nothing but cry and sleep.

One morning, I saw Caleb sitting there with that unfamiliar dimple — something not from our family — and I just snapped.

I told Amanda she had to leave. My house wasn’t a shelter for freeloaders anymore.

She seemed stunned but didn’t argue.

I knew she had nowhere else to go. Her own mother wouldn’t take her.

Later, I found a note she left behind, trying to guilt-trip me, saying I was “all she had left.” She truly didn’t understand why I did what I did.

I had done my part. Opened my home. Raised her kids when she wouldn’t. Buried my son. I was done.

She cried, begged me, and asked, “What about the boys?”

And I told her plainly: I don’t owe you anything. I tolerated you for Daniel’s sake. He’s gone now.

So go. She could have left ages ago if she had any dignity. But she stayed, shamelessly.

Here’s the part I know will get me hate: I wanted to keep Caleb. Not legally adopt him, but I asked Amanda if I could raise him myself.

I was the one who bottle-fed him when she disappeared for hours to “buy groceries.”

He clung to me. He called me “Nana.” I didn’t care if he wasn’t Daniel’s — he felt like mine.

Amanda screamed at me, called me a monster, took both kids, and left. I have no idea where they are now.

Maybe they’re bouncing between couches or staying in a shelter. I just don’t know.

My house is quiet now. Peaceful. I lit a candle by Daniel’s picture, and I finally feel like I’m honoring him by getting rid of the chaos that broke him down.

People tell me, “But they’re your grandchildren!” Are they, though? If one of them isn’t even Daniel’s, I trust what my heart tells me.

So how am I supposed to feel anything else?

I did what I had to do. Am I wrong?