Mum-in-law took offense because we refused to take in her university-student son
My husband and I have been together eleven years. We live in our two-bedroom flat, which we worked hard to pay off the mortgage for. We’re raising our eight-year-old son, and by all accounts, life was going smoothly—until my mother-in-law’s latest “brilliant” idea shattered our peace.
My husband has a younger brother, Oliver. He’s seventeen, and truth be told, we’ve never been close. My husband barely speaks to him—the age gap is too wide. And then there’s the way their parents coddle him, spoiling him rotten, forgiving every misstep, letting him coast through life without lifting a finger.
Oliver’s grades are abysmal, barely scraping by in school. Yet for every borderline pass, he’s rewarded—new trainers, the latest gaming console. My husband has said more than once, “If I’d brought home a D, I’d have been grounded for weeks, and he gets treats?”
I’m with him entirely. We’ve watched Oliver refuse to lift a plate, waiting for Mum and Dad to set the table, serve his meal, clear up after him. Not a word of thanks, no “cheers”—just pushes his chair back and vanishes into his room. Doesn’t know where his socks are, can’t boil a kettle, mixes up his own laundry. Everything handed to him. My husband’s tried reasoning with his mother: “You’re raising a helpless fool.” She’s waved him off: “He’s not like you. He needs tenderness.”
The fallout was always the same—rows, icy silences that lasted weeks. We stayed out of it. Until Oliver announced he’d set his sights on a uni here in our city. Then the storm hit.
Mum-in-law barely hesitated before suggesting we take him in. “Halls won’t accept him—no local ties, renting’s too dear, and he can’t manage alone. You’re family! Two bedrooms, there’s space!” she pressed, like it was the most natural request.
I tried softening the blow: our bedroom, our son’s room. Where, exactly, was another grown lad meant to sleep? Her eyes gleamed. “Bunk beds! The boys will bond!”
That’s when my husband snapped. “I’m not a babysitter, Mum! Dumping your ‘baby’ on us? No. He’s your son—you deal with him! I was on my own at seventeen. Managed fine.”
Mum-in-law burst into tears, called us heartless, slammed the door. That evening, my father-in-law rang, guilt-tripping. “This isn’t how family treats each other! You’re abandoning your brother!”
But my husband stood firm. He’d visit if they rented Oliver a place, but under our roof? Not a chance. “Enough of treating him like an infant. Time he grew up.”
“He’s only seventeen!” his dad protested.
“So was I when I moved out. No one held my hand then,” my husband shot back before hanging up.
Mum-in-law called twice more—he let it ring. Then the text came: “Don’t expect a penny from us.” Honestly? If “inheritance” means shackling ourselves to a spoiled man-child, no thanks. We’ve earned what we have—through work, through choice, through keeping our peace.
Everyone reaps what they sow. If they chose indulgence over discipline, let them handle the mess. We owe no one anything.
