Oh, let me tell you about my daughter Emma and that useless lad she married—proper nightmare, it is. When she first brought Oliver home, my stomach just dropped. All flashy, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, talking a big game—but nothing behind it. No ambition, just moaning every five minutes. One job’s paying peanuts, the next boss is a “right prat,” the hours “don’t suit him.” Always someone else’s fault, never his.
I tried talking sense into her—pleading, crying, telling her a man ought to be her rock, especially in marriage. But she was head over heels, deaf as a post to anything I said. Her dad just shrugged—“She’s grown, let her learn the hard way.” So I bit my tongue. Her happiness mattered more than my gut feeling. But how could I stay calm? Raised her right, worked my fingers to the bone, got her through uni, bought her a flat in Manchester, even a nice little Ford—all so she’d have it easy. And then what? At 25, she goes and marries this layabout who can’t hold down a job if his life depended on it.
The wedding happened. I went, but my heart wasn’t in it—just did it for her. Then they started their life together. At first, it was… fine, I suppose. While Emma was working, they scraped by. But soon as she went on maternity leave? The calls started. “Mum, can you spare a bit for groceries?” Course I helped. She’s my girl, and I know how tough it is with a baby. But where was *he* in all this?
Turns out, Oliver quit *again*. Not ’cause jobs are scarce—no, he just couldn’t be bothered. Sat there glued to the telly or his phone, making excuses. His parents live out in some village in Yorkshire, didn’t even show for the wedding, never lift a finger. So who’s left holding the bag? Us.
I held my tongue for ages. Knew if I said a word against him, Emma would blow up. But one day, I cracked. Told him straight: “You’re a grown man acting like a teenager. Won’t work, won’t step up. What’s the point of you?”
Emma had a full meltdown, of course. Oliver suddenly “remembered” he had a spine and got a job—lasted two months, same as always. Then quit—boss was a “nightmare,” pay was “rubbish,” some other excuse. And Emma? Still making excuses for him: “You don’t get it, Mum, it’s *toxic* there…”
Then one day, I dropped round with shopping and found him sprawled on the sofa, remote in hand, while Emma looked half-dead, baby on her hip. That was it. I snapped. “Why not try delivery driving? You’ve got a car, got your license.” He looked at me like I’d told him to scrub toilets. Said it was “beneath him.” So I asked, “Is looking after your kid beneath you too?” His reply? “That’s women’s work.”
That’s when I put my foot down. Hard. Told him: “Either you grow up and take responsibility, or you’re on your own. We’re not bankrolling you forever.” Emma screamed, called me heartless—“I *love* him!” Three years of this “love,” and where’s it got her?
We’ll *always* be there for Emma and our granddaughter—roof over their heads, food on the table. But him? Done. We’re not a charity. Even her dad backed me—said, “Better alone than with dead weight.” We’re hoping she’ll wake up someday. For the kid’s sake, if nothing else.
’Til then? We’re learning to love her from a distance—close enough to catch her if she falls, but far enough that we don’t drown with her. ’Cause if she won’t see the mess she’s in, no one can drag her out of it.
