My son brought home his new wife and her two kids. Now every single day feels like hell.
It’s been three years of this nightmare, like I’m stuck in a loop I can’t escape. It all started when my son, Thomas—a grown man of 35—moved his new wife, Emily, into our tiny two-bedroom house in Manchester. She already had two kids from her first marriage. At first, he said it was temporary. Just for a little while. Temporary. How often do we women fall for that word?
Three years later, and our house isn’t just a home—it’s a full-blown circus. Me, my son, his wife, her two kids, and… she’s pregnant again. Guess God decided my golden years would come with no peace, no comfort, not even a bloody moment to catch my breath. Maybe this is my punishment for something.
Emily isn’t disabled, she’s not ill—she’s just over 30. But she refuses to work. Says she’s “busy with the kids.” Except the kids are at nursery every morning, and where’s Emily? Not at a job. She’s out shopping. Or at her mate’s. Or getting her nails done. Who knows.
Thomas kept promising: they’d sort the paperwork, she’d get a job, they’d move out, maybe rent a place or take out a mortgage. I believed him. I’m his mum—I always hope for the best. But a year passed. Then two. Now it’s three. Nothing’s changed—except Emily’s belly is bigger.
I wouldn’t say she’s outright rude to me. She doesn’t swear, she’s polite. But she doesn’t lift a finger around the house. Won’t mop the floors, won’t wash the dishes, won’t cook. Doesn’t even properly look after her own kids—just sticks them in front of the telly, shoves something in their hands, and scrolls on her phone all day. Then come evening, it’s silence from her and chaos from the kids.
Every chore falls on me. I’m up at four in the morning. Work as a cleaner in two offices, scrub floors, get home by eight, don’t even have time for a cuppa before I’m back at it—cleaning, laundry, cooking. While everyone’s out, I’m slaving away in the kitchen, scrubbing off the grime, washing clothes, making lunch. Because by noon, Thomas and Emily are back—starving, of course. Then more chores, dinner, and only after nine do I finally sit down. Sometimes, I just stand in the kitchen and cry. Completely worn out.
My pension covers the bills and groceries. Thomas’s wages can’t keep up with this lot. And Emily? Well, she’s “on maternity leave.” Even before she officially was.
I tried talking to Thomas the other day. Told him the house is too small, there are too many of us, I’m exhausted, my health’s failing. Ended up in hospital last month—my blood pressure spiked while I was cooking. The doctor warned me—no more stress. And what does my son say?
*”Mum, you don’t own this place alone. It’s my house too. We’re not going anywhere. We can’t afford it. Just hang in there.”*
That’s it.
That’s my thanks.
That’s my son.
I’m thinking of leaving. Taking out a loan, getting into debt, just to find my own little place. Doesn’t matter if it’s smaller, doesn’t matter if it’s a dump. Just somewhere quiet. Somewhere empty. Because I can’t take another baby in this house. We’re not living here anymore—we’re surviving.
I’m not living. I’m serving. I’m a slave. In my own home. In my own old age. And the worst part? Not one of them even *thinks* about how I feel. They just carry on, waiting for me to cook, clean, stay quiet.
I want to scream, but I bite my tongue. I can’t take it, but I keep going. Because if I don’t? It’ll be dirt, hunger, cold. Because I’m the mum. Because I’m the nan. Because I’m alone.
