Sometimes I think I’ve stumbled into an absurd West End farce rather than real life. My son, a grown man, acts like a schoolboy again—letting others call the shots. Meanwhile, his wife directs their shared life like a stage manager, while I lurk in the wings, purse in hand, eternally on standby to bail them out. The trouble is, my patience—and savings—aren’t bottomless.
They’ve lived together since before the wedding. Back then, my son still bunked in my maisonette in Croydon while his then-girlfriend rented a shoebox in Walthamstow with a mate. When talk of marriage started, they moved into a one-bed flat together. I kept my nose out—let them build their life, fair enough. I chipped in when asked, though we’re no Rothschilds. Been there myself, scraping by in my twenties.
But now? Now they’re dead set on having a baby. No stable jobs, no savings, not even a decent flat—just grand pronouncements about biological clocks and “it’ll all work out.” And my son? Nods along like a hypnotised garden gnome. Where’s your backbone, lad? When did you outsource your common sense?
He’s employed, technically—if you count a gig where paychecks vanish like biscuits at a vicar’s tea party. Five jobs in as many years, always someone else’s fault: the boss is rubbish, the company’s collapsing. Her wages barely cover a Pret subscription. Yet they’ve bounced between rentals like pinballs. Manageable for two—but with a screaming newborn? Midnight feeds amid unpacked boxes? Who’ll foot that chaos?
I tried reason: “Get settled first. Save up. Breathe.” No dice. She’s in a hurry. And him? “Yeah, alright then.” So now I’m prepping for grandma-hood—and likely nanny, ATM, and crisis hotline rolled into one. Helping’s one thing, but I’ve got my own creaky knees and looming energy bills. What happens when they’re skint by month three? Who’ll buy nappies, pay the rent? Spoiler: me. Because saying no to family isn’t in my DNA.
And her? She chirps, “We’ll muddle through!” like she’s planning a glamping weekend, not raising a human. Meanwhile, my stomach knots. Why not think it through? Budget? Wait two bloody years? Land proper jobs, save for a deposit, maybe even get a Help-to-Buy flat? But no—this lot would rather leap off a cliff and knit the parachute on the way down. Assuming someone’s waiting with a safety net. (Spoiler again: that’s me.)
I keep quiet. My advice has the lifespan of a mayfly. But deep down, I’m steeling myself—for sleepless nights, for bank transfers disguised as “gifts,” for responsibility I never signed up for. Because when kids arrive, it’s always the elders who bend. Love’s not just joy—it’s sacrifice. And a desperate hope that someday, someone in this daft chain might finally grow up.
