“Oh well, if it’s not my flat, I’m not lifting a finger!” — those words from my daughter-in-law made me rethink everything.
There was a time I seriously considered putting one of my flats in my son’s name. Thought it’d give him and his wife a fresh start, no more renting struggles. But after what I saw and heard from his wife, the very idea makes my skin crawl. No, let them save up themselves—the flat stays mine. And if they ever divorce? I’d breathe a sigh of relief. Because it’s not just that I don’t approve of his choice—I’m terrified of her. His wife, Gemma, turned out to be a complete let-down.
Her family’s ordinary, no fancy connections, but she acts like she was raised in some stately home with staff. Her parents are decent, down-to-earth people—nothing like their daughter, who thinks she’s royalty. She’s got basic qualifications, works as an office manager, earns an average wage. Yet she’s hopeless with money—blows it all in days, then hounds my son for more. Constantly. No shame.
After they got kicked out of their rented place post-wedding, I took them in out of kindness until my other flat (with tenants at the time) freed up. Didn’t have to, but I did it for my son. And honestly? Regret hit fast. The second Gemma stepped inside, her face twisted in disgust. Looked around like she’d walked into a dump. Meanwhile, my place is nicely done up, always clean.
“Am I supposed to sleep on this sofa? Couldn’t your mum at least give us the bed?” she snipped at him.
Oh, the sofa’s not good enough? Funny—she managed just fine in their grotty rental. And my son, usually so strong-willed, just rolled over for her. Lets her walk all over him. I barely recognise him. What’s she done to him? No idea.
Those months under one roof were torture. After work, I’d duck into my room to avoid them. Just to spare myself the sight of Gemma’s permanent sneer. We didn’t speak—thank God.
When they finally moved into the other flat, I relaxed. Then my son started hinting: “Mum, what’re your plans for that place? Fancy putting it in my name?” Knew straight away where that came from. Not his idea—Gemma’s been in his ear. I shut it down: “It stays in my name. That’s my safety net for old age, so I’m not burdening you. Live there, save up for your own place. Besides, it’s not ideal—layout’s dated.”
He seemed to get it. Dropped the subject. We saw less of each other after that—life moves on. I kept my distance.
Then recently, he invited us for his birthday at theirs. Walked in—and froze. The filth was unreal. Hob caked in grease, sticky floors, dust everywhere, boxes still packed. Total chaos. Even the guests noticed.
Gemma’s mum, trying to be polite, asked: “Love, why’s it so messy here?”
Gemma’s reply finished me: “Why should I? It’s not my flat. Not my job to clean someone else’s place.”
Her mum was speechless. “But you cleaned your rented flat, and that wasn’t yours either!”
My son stood there. I saw it in his face—he’s revolted. Raised in a tidy home, now stuck in this pigsty. He’s miserable, but says nothing. Because he fell for her once. Now? The spark’s gone. Just habit—or fear—keeping him there.
I didn’t say a word to Gemma. Just stared. He won’t put up with this forever. And deep down? I’m waiting for the divorce. Harsh, but true: if they split, I’ll be glad. Because my son deserves warmth, care—a proper woman. Not someone forever ungrateful, incapable of even basic decency.
