I’m 42, and I absolutely don’t want my parents moving in with me.
My name’s Lucy. I’m forty-two, married with two wonderful kids. We’ve been living abroad for fifteen years now—in London—after deciding to start fresh, leave poverty behind, and build a better life for our family.
We’re originally from a tiny village up north. After we got married, we bounced between my parents’ place and his, but it quickly became clear—if we wanted peace, we had to leave. So we did.
Those early years were tough. I worked as a nanny; my husband washed cars. We pinched every penny, renting a shoebox flat in Croydon. But we did it together. Slowly, things got better. We had our son, then our daughter. We got residency, bought a modest house on a mortgage, and found jobs that let us live, not just scrape by.
The kids go to school, join clubs, grow up loved and safe. We’re not rich, but we manage—no handouts, no favours. Just hard work.
Then, the calls started. My parents never visited, never sent so much as a birthday card for the kids. I sent money when I could—paid for medicine, posted clothes. All I got back was guilt: *”You’re living the high life in London while we’re stuck here!”*
Then came the final straw. Mum announced: *”We’re moving in with you. There’s nothing left for us here. You’ve got warmth, food, the grandkids nearby.”* Oh, and of course—we’d be footing the bill.
No discussion. No *”Is this okay? Can you manage?”* Just an order.
Where were they when I was ill? When we ate noodles for weeks after moving? When the kids were born and not a single onesie came from them? Now I’m supposed to upend our lives—our peace—for people who never showed up when *I* needed them?
I’m not heartless. I help where I can—money, calls. But I won’t let my kids grow up in a house full of tension, listening to lectures about “respect.” I won’t have my husband hiding in the pub just to escape his mother-in-law’s nagging.
Why should the kids share a room because Grandma wants space? Why should my husband be treated like a chauffeur and ATM? Why do we all become unpaid carers just because someone fancies a cushy retirement?
I know what people will say: *”They gave you life!”* But is biology really enough?
Growing up, birthdays meant no cake, no parties. Clothes came from charity shops; shoes lasted two years. No holidays, no warmth—just tolerance. I survived *despite* them, not because of them.
Now I’m told I *owe* them. But I didn’t take their youth. I won’t let them take my children’s peace.
Call me selfish—but I choose my kids. My husband. Our home, where there’s light and love, not guilt and ghosts of the past.
I’ll help, but I won’t wreck what we’ve built. Not for duty, not for “family.” My kids deserve better than paying for someone else’s regrets.
