So, my mother-in-law got all upset because we refused to take her student son in.
My husband and I have been together eleven years. We live in our two-bed flat in London, which we worked hard to pay off the mortgage on. We’re raising our eight-year-old son, and honestly, life’s been going just fine—until my mother-in-law came up with another “brilliant” idea to wreck the peace.
My husband has a younger brother, Oliver. He’s seventeen, and in all these years, we’ve barely spoken to him. My husband hardly keeps in touch—big age gap, you know. Plus, it’s always bothered him how their parents treat Oliver like he’s made of glass. They spoil him rotten, let him get away with everything, and never make him lift a finger.
Oliver’s doing terribly in school—barely scraping by. And yet, every time he barely passes, he gets rewarded—a new laptop, fancy trainers, you name it. My husband’s said more than once, “If I got a D, I’d be made to study all night, but he gets gadgets for it!”
I’m with him on that. We’ve seen Oliver refuse to even microwave his own food. Just sits there while his mum and dad set the table, serve him, clear up after him. Doesn’t say thanks, doesn’t say goodbye—just gets up and walks off to his room. Doesn’t know where his socks are, can’t make tea, mixes up his own stuff. Completely helpless. My husband’s tried talking to his mum—”You’re turning him into a kid who can’t do anything!”—but she just waves him off: “He’s not like you. He needs more tenderness.”
Arguments, sulking, weeks of silence—that’s how those talks always end. We’ve tried to stay out of the drama. But then Oliver suddenly decided to apply to uni here in London. That’s when things got interesting.
My mother-in-law, without a hint of shame, suggested we let Oliver live with us. “The halls won’t take him—no local address, he can’t afford to rent, and he can’t manage on his own. You’re family! You’ve got a two-bed—plenty of space for everyone!” she insisted, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I tried to be polite: Our bedroom’s ours, the other room’s our son’s. Where exactly are we supposed to put another grown man? Then she hit me with, “We’ll just get a bunk bed for our grandson—they can share! Boys that age get on great anyway.”
That’s when my husband lost it. He cut her off:
“I’m not a babysitter, Mum! You’re trying to dump your ‘baby’ on us? No. He’s your son—you deal with him! I was living on my own at seventeen, and I turned out fine!”
She burst into tears, called us heartless, and stormed out. Later that night, my father-in-law rang, laying on the guilt: “This isn’t how family treats each other! You’re abandoning your brother!”
But my husband stood his ground. Said he’d visit Oliver if they rented him a place, but he wasn’t moving in. “Stop treating him like a helpless kid. Time he grew up.”
“But he’s only seventeen!” his dad shot back.
“I was seventeen when I moved out. And guess what? No one coddled me!” Then he hung up.
Since then, my mother-in-law’s called a few times—he ignores it. Then came the text: “Don’t expect anything in the will.” Honestly? If “the will” means taking care of a spoiled grown man, no thanks. We’ve already earned what we have—through our own work, our family, our peace.
Everyone’s got to own their choices. If someone chose a life of no rules and no responsibility, well—now they can deal with it. We don’t owe anyone a thing.
