*The Parasitic Son-in-Law, or How My Daughter Traded Common Sense for Love*
When my Emily first brought her beau into our home, my heart sank with unease. There was something about that smug young man—his self-satisfied smirk, the way he carried himself with false bravado—that set alarm bells ringing. Not a man, but a peacock: all flashy charm and empty words. Irresponsible, flighty, perpetually disgruntled. He changed jobs more frequently than most change their socks. Either the pay was too low, the bosses were “unreasonable,” or the hours “didn’t suit him.” In short, the world was always at fault—never him.
I tried to reason with my daughter. I wept, pleaded, explained that a man ought to be a pillar of strength, especially in marriage. But Emily was blinded by infatuation, deaf to my words. My husband—her father—shrugged it off: “She’s grown, let her learn the hard way. Our job is to stand by her.” I tried to resign myself to it, to believe her happiness outweighed my misgivings. But how could I stay calm? After years of nurturing, sacrificing, pouring my soul into her, only for her to tie herself to this idle layabout?
We gave her everything: a degree from a top university, a flat in London, a decent car. All so her life would be smooth and comfortable. And what does she do? At twenty-five, she marries a man whose sole talent is whingeing.
The wedding went ahead. I attended, but not with joy—only for Emily’s sake. Then came their life together. At first, it seemed bearable. While she worked, they scraped by. But when she went on maternity leave—it all unraveled. The calls began: “Mum, can you lend us a bit? Just for groceries…” Of course, I helped. My darling girl, and I knew the struggles of being a young mother. But where was her husband in all this?
Soon, the truth was clear: the son-in-law had quit yet another job. Not for lack of opportunities—he simply couldn’t be bothered. Lounging about with his phone or telly, spinning excuses. His parents lived out in Cornwall, hadn’t even shown for the wedding, offered no support. The burden fell entirely on us.
I held my tongue for ages. Any criticism of Emily’s beloved would only cause rows. But one day, my patience snapped. I told them straight: “You, Liam, are a grown man acting like a sulky teen. Won’t work, won’t lift a finger. What good are you?”
After that scene, Emily flew into hysterics. Liam, suddenly remembering his “manhood,” found a job—for all of two months. Then he quit again: “Toxic workplace,” “bad vibes,” “not enough pay.” Emily, ever the loyal daughter, parroted his excuses: “You don’t understand, Mum, the management was dreadful…”
Then, one day, I arrived with bags of shopping to find him sprawled on the sofa, remote in hand—while Emily, dark circles under her eyes, juggled the baby. That’s when I lost it. “Why not try delivery driving?” I suggested. “You’ve got a car, a license.” He looked at me as though I’d asked him to shovel manure. “Not my sort of thing,” he sniffed. “What *is* your sort of thing?” I shot back. “Sitting on your arse?”
That’s when I made my decision. Harsh. Unpopular. But necessary: “Either you step up, or our help stops. We won’t carry you forever.” Emily wailed, accused us of cruelty. “You don’t get it—I love him!” she cried. Three years of this, and still we “don’t get it.” Perhaps it’s time she got it herself.
We’ll never abandon our daughter or granddaughter. They’ll always have a home with us. But the son-in-law? That bridge is burnt. We’re not a charity. My husband stood firm: “Better alone than with dead weight.” We can only hope Emily wakes up—if not for herself, then for her child.
For now, we love her from a distance—far enough to spare ourselves the agony. Because if she won’t see the swamp she’s in, no one can drag her out.
