The house shakes with arguments more and more these days—not between me and my husband, but because of our son-in-law. The man our daughter chose to marry is the laziest, most feckless creature I’ve ever known. He hasn’t held a proper job in over a year—just the odd gig here and there—while the rest of the time he lounges about at home. Our daughter shoulders everything, raising two little ones on her own, even while on maternity leave. And him? He just… exists.
Of course, Emily can’t work properly—the twins need constant care. I offered to help. But with a condition. A strict one: not a single penny more until she divorces that parasite. Because helping her only means feeding him too, and I refuse to bankroll anyone’s idleness.
I never liked Oliver from the start. Hoped it would pass, that she’d come to her senses. But no—they went through with the wedding. Youth, love, illusions—they clouded her judgment. Now we’re left cleaning up the mess.
We gave them Gran’s old flat. Used to have tenants in it, our only extra income on top of the pension. But the young ones couldn’t afford rent, so we handed it over. Just asked them to give it a fresh coat of paint, make it cosy for the kids.
Oliver showed his true colours straight away:
*”I’m not doing that. I’m no handyman—I’m a thinker. Hire professionals if you want it done.”*
With what money, exactly? He hasn’t earned enough to buy a screwdriver. All he does is philosophise and moan about his bad luck. Can’t work evenings, won’t work weekends—*”I need my rest.”* Clearly, he thinks the world owes him.
When I called him a layabout to his face, he bristled. *”That’s unfair.”* And Emily? Instead of backing me up, she turned on me:
*”Now you’ve made us argue again. Why can’t you stay out of it?”*
I stepped back. But I made myself clear: if she’s dug this hole, she can climb out herself. No more running to us with empty hands. Then she got pregnant again—twins, no less—and my heart sank. Thought Oliver might wake up, but no. Nothing. We had to do everything—finish the fixes, hunt for cribs, even take her to check-ups. Him? Still on the sofa, laptop in lap.
Emily tried her best, but I could see it dawning on her—what kind of man she’d married. Together, we managed to get the flat ready. All hands on deck. He did buy *something* in a sale later, but that’s no excuse. When you’ve a family, you step up. He’s just… another child in the house, watching others work.
Then we found out *how* they were scraping by—they’d maxed out a credit card. Didn’t breathe a word. Hid it. Then came the call:
*”Mum, we’re drowning. Please…”*
I lost it.
*”Emily! You had children with a man who couldn’t even change a lightbulb! How did you think this would work?”*
*”It’s just a rough patch—”*
*”Rough patch?! You’ve a home, parents breaking their backs for you, and he won’t take *any* job—too little pay, too far to travel, wrong hours!”*
*”Mum, you don’t get it… He’s looking! He just won’t work for pennies!”*
*”Yet *we’re* the ones living on pennies! You, the kids, *him*—all on *our* backs!”*
I’ve had enough. No more being their cash cow. I told her:
*”Until you leave him, don’t come asking for help. Not a quid. Stay if you want—but carry the weight yourself.”*
She sobbed. *”You’d have my kids grow up without a father?”*
And I said what I’d held in too long:
*”Better no father than one like *that*. Better no example than a man who lives off others.”*
I’m her mother. But I won’t be a victim anymore. I want my daughter raising children with a *man*, not a burden. I want her to respect herself—not beg for help while he sips tea and eats biscuits. I’ve given all I can. Now… enough.
