The Son-in-Law Who Wouldn’t Grow Up, or How My Daughter Chose Love Over Reason
When my Emily first brought her young man home, my heart sank. There was something about his smug grin, the way he held himself—all flash and no substance—that set alarm bells ringing. Not a man, but a peacock: well-dressed, talkative, grinning from ear to ear, yet empty beneath the polished surface. Irresponsible, flighty, forever dissatisfied. He changed jobs more often than most people change their socks. Either the pay was too low, the boss was “impossible,” or the hours “just didn’t suit him.” In short, the world was always at fault—never him.
I tried to make my daughter see sense. I pleaded, argued, explained that a man should be a steady rock, especially in marriage. But Emily was blind with infatuation, deaf to my words. Her father shrugged—”She’s grown, let her learn the hard way; our job is just to be there.” I tried to accept it. Her happiness mattered more than my misgivings. But how could I stay calm? All those years of raising her, sacrificing for her, pouring my soul into her future, only for her to tie herself to this feckless parasite?
We’d given her everything: a top-tier university, a flat in London, a nice car. All so she could start life on easy footing. And what did she do? At twenty-five, she married a man whose only skill was complaining.
The wedding happened. I attended, but not with joy—only for Emily’s sake. Then came their life together. At first, it was manageable. While she worked, they scraped by. But once maternity leave began, the calls started: *”Mum, can you help with money? Just for groceries…”* Of course I helped. My daughter, my love, a new mum—I understood the struggle. But where was her husband in all this?
Soon, the truth emerged: he’d quit yet again. Not for lack of work—he simply couldn’t be bothered. Lounging at home, glued to his phone or the telly, spinning excuses. His parents lived somewhere up in Yorkshire, hadn’t even come to the wedding, offered no support. The burden fell entirely on us.
I bit my tongue for ages. Any word against her darling would only push Emily away. But eventually, I cracked. I laid it out plainly: *”You, Oliver, are a grown man acting like a sulky teen. You won’t work, won’t provide. What’s the point of you?”*
After that scene, Emily had a fit, called me heartless. Oliver suddenly “remembered” he was a man and found a job—for all of two months. Then came another resignation: *”Toxic environment,” “wrong crowd,” “not enough pay.”* Emily, ever the parrot, parroted his excuses: *”You don’t get it, Mum, the management was awful…”*
Then, one day, I arrived with bags of shopping to find him sprawled on the sofa with the remote while Emily juggled a crying baby and dark circles under her eyes. That’s when I snapped. I suggested, not for the first time: *”Couldn’t you at least drive for Deliveroo? You’ve got a car and a license.”* He looked at me like I’d asked him to shovel coal with his bare hands. Said such work was *”beneath him.”* I fired back: *”And babysitting is beneath you too?”* His reply: *”That’s not a man’s job.”*
That’s when I drew the line. Harsh. Unpopular. But necessary: *”Either step up and take responsibility, or don’t expect another penny from us. We won’t carry you forever.”* Emily sobbed, called us cruel. *”You don’t understand—I love him!”* Three years we’ve “not understood.” Maybe it’s time she understood herself?
We’ll never abandon Emily or our granddaughter. Our door is always open. But the son-in-law? That chapter’s closed. We’re not a charity. Her father backed me fully, even muttered: *”Better alone than shackled to dead weight.”* We can only hope Emily wakes up someday—if not for herself, then for her child.
For now? We love her from a distance. Far enough not to drown with her. Because if she won’t see the swamp she’s in, no one can pull her out.
