My mother-in-law took offense because we refused to take in her university student son.
My husband and I have been together for eleven years now. We live in a modest two-bedroom flat in Bristol, which we worked hard to pay off through our mortgage. We’re raising our eight-year-old son, and by all accounts, life seemed to be going as planned—until my mother-in-law had yet another “brilliant” idea that shattered our peace.
My husband has a younger brother named Oliver. He’s seventeen now, and truth be told, we’ve barely spoken to him over the years. My husband hardly keeps in touch—there’s too much of an age gap between them. Besides, it always irked him how their parents coddled Oliver, spoiling him rotten, excusing his laziness, and letting him get away with everything.
Oliver’s grades are dreadful, barely scraping by in school. Yet for every barely passing mark, he’s rewarded—a new tablet, fancy trainers. My husband would often grumble, “If I’d failed anything, they’d have made me study for days on end, but he gets gadgets for it!”
I agreed wholeheartedly. We’d watched Oliver refuse to lift a finger—even to heat up his own meals. He’d sit at the table while his parents served him, cleared his plate, and cleaned up after him. Not so much as a “thank you” before vanishing to his room. He couldn’t find his own socks, brew a cup of tea, or keep track of his things—utterly reliant on his parents. My husband tried more than once to warn his mother, “You’re raising him to be helpless.” But she’d wave him off with, “He’s not like you. He needs more tenderness.”
These talks always ended the same way—arguments, hurt feelings, weeks of silence. We kept our distance from the drama—until the day Oliver suddenly decided to apply to university in our city. That’s when things took a turn.
Without hesitation, my mother-in-law suggested we take Oliver in. “The dorm won’t accept him without local ties,” she reasoned. “Renting alone is too costly, and he can’t manage on his own. You’re family! Your flat has space!” She spoke as if it were the most natural arrangement.
I tried softening the refusal—our bedroom took one room, our son the other. Where, exactly, were we meant to house a grown man? Undeterred, she brightly proposed, “We’ll add another bed for your boy! They’ll get on splendidly sharing a room!”
That’s when my husband snapped. “I’m not a nursemaid, Mum!” he cut in. “Trying to palm off your ‘child’ onto us? No. He’s your son—you deal with him. I was living on my own at his age. I managed just fine!”
My mother-in-law burst into tears, called us heartless, and stormed out. That very evening, my father-in-law rang, reproaching us: “This isn’t how family behaves! You’re abandoning your brother!”
But my husband stood firm. He’d visit Oliver, he said, if his parents rented him a flat—but under our roof? Never. “Stop treating him like a helpless infant. It’s time he grew up.”
“He’s only seventeen!” his father argued.
“And I was seventeen when I left home—no one coddled me then!” My husband hung up before the shouting could worsen.
After that, my mother-in-law rang a few more times. He ignored her. Then came the text: “Don’t expect a penny from us.” Honestly? If that “inheritance” came with strings attached—raising a spoiled man—we wanted no part of it. We’d earned what we had through hard work, building our family, valuing our peace.
Everyone must answer for their choices. If some choose indulgence and laziness, let them face the consequences. We owe no one anything.
