Oh, the son-in-law leech, or how my daughter traded common sense for love…
When my Emily first brought her boyfriend home, my gut twisted the second I laid eyes on him. There was something about that smug look, the way he carried himself—all flash and no substance. Not a proper man, just a peacock in a smart suit, grinning like he’d won the lottery, but behind all that charm? Nothing. Irresponsible, flighty, never happy with anything. Changed jobs more often than people change their socks. Always underpaid, or the boss was ‘unfair,’ or the hours ‘didn’t suit him.’ Always someone else’s fault—never his.
I tried to talk sense into her. Cried, pleaded, explained—a man should be her rock, especially in marriage. But Emily was lovesick, deaf to reason. My husband, her dad, just shrugged: ‘She’s grown, let her learn the hard way. Our job is to stand by her.’ So I bit my tongue. At the end of the day, her happiness mattered more than my gut feeling. But how could I stay calm? Years of raising her, pouring everything into her, just for her to tie herself to this lazy, ambition-less layabout?
We gave her everything—top-notch education, a flat in London, a nice car. So she’d have an easy start. And what does she do? At 25, she marries a man whose only skill is whinging.
The wedding still happened. I went, but not with joy—just for her sake. Then came married life. At first, it seemed bearable. While Emily worked, they scraped by. But the moment she went on maternity leave? The calls started. ‘Mum, can you help with groceries? Just till payday…’ Of course, I did. My girl, my grandchild—I know how tough it is being a new mum. But where was *he* in all this?
Soon, the truth came out: the son-in-law had quit *again*. Not because jobs were scarce—he just couldn’t be bothered. Sat at home, glued to his phone or telly, making excuses. His parents lived up in Yorkshire, didn’t even show for the wedding, and were no help at all. The weight? All on us.
I held my tongue. Knew any criticism would spark a row. But one day, I snapped. Laid it out bluntly: ‘Listen, Daniel—you’re a grown man acting like a teenager. Won’t work, won’t step up. What’s the point of you?’
Emily blew up, sobbing, ranting. Daniel suddenly ‘remembered’ he had a spine and found a job. Lasted two months, tops. Then quit—‘toxic workplace,’ ‘bad vibes,’ ‘not enough pay.’ And Emily? Right back to defending him: ‘You don’t *get it*, Mum, the manager was horrible…’
Then one day, I dropped off groceries and found him sprawled on the sofa, remote in hand, while Emily juggled the baby, dark circles under her eyes. That’s when I lost it. Tried once more: ‘Why not deliver takeaways? You’ve got the car, the licence.’ He looked at me like I’d asked him to shovel manure. Said it ‘wasn’t for him.’ So I asked, ‘Is childcare “for you” then?’ ‘Not a man’s job,’ he shot back.
And that’s when I drew the line. Harsh? Maybe. But necessary: ‘Either grow up and take responsibility, or don’t expect another penny from us. We won’t carry you forever.’ Cue another meltdown from Emily—‘You’re heartless! I *love* him!’ Three years of this. Maybe it’s time she asked: *Is love enough?*
We’ll never turn our backs on Emily or our grandchild. They’ll always have a home with us. But Daniel? That door’s shut. We’re not a charity. Even my husband, usually laid-back, agreed: ‘Better alone than with dead weight.’ We can only hope Emily wakes up—for the baby’s sake, if nothing else.
For now? We’re learning to love her from a distance—close enough to help, far enough not to drown with her. Because if she won’t see the mess she’s in, no one can drag her out.
