The daughter-in-law turned the house into a party, and my son won’t say a word!
“My son rang me, nearly in tears,” shares Margaret Thompson, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. “He asked if he could come stay with us in Manchester to get some work done. His wife keeps dragging her friends over every night, and he can’t concentrate at his computer! I could hardly breathe from the shock of it.”
“Did you let him stay?” asks the neighbor, topping up her tea.
“Of course I did!” Margaret’s voice trembles with frustration. “I’ve told him a hundred times—sort things out with your wife! But it’s no use. He turned up at mine, exhausted, starving, eyes bloodshot. Sat at the computer and didn’t move until the small hours. Said he had a critical project, deadlines burning.”
“Why can’t he work at home? His wife won’t let him?”
“That place isn’t a home—it’s a circus!” the woman sighs. “One day it’s her sister, the next a pack of friends. Noise, laughter, music shaking the rafters. How’s he meant to focus?”
Her son, Oliver, is a design engineer. He’s been married to Charlotte for six years. At first, Margaret couldn’t have been happier with her daughter-in-law—quiet, polite, with a degree in finance. When their grandson, Alfie, was born, Margaret thought her the perfect wife. “What a homemaker! Everything spotless, child well looked after, Oliver well fed. I was overjoyed for my son,” she recalls wistfully.
Oliver built his career while Charlotte was on maternity leave. In three years, he climbed to senior engineer, but with promotion came heavier demands. Then, everything shifted. “My boy, always so lively, so full of energy—he just withered before my eyes,” Margaret says, voice cracking. “I thought it was trouble at work, but no—it was home.”
Once, she dropped by their flat in central Manchester unannounced—only to walk into a full-blown revel. Charlotte had friends over, music blaring, laughter echoing from the kitchen. Oliver was locked in the bedroom, glued to his laptop, and Alfie was nowhere in sight. Turned out Charlotte had shipped him off to her parents in the suburbs. These parties had become the norm—every night, a new excuse. Birthdays, random celebrations, dancing till midnight. Oliver couldn’t work in the chaos. “I walk in and the place is a tip. How am I supposed to think straight?” he’d complained to his mother.
Margaret tried to reason with Charlotte, but she snapped back: “I’m sick of being the perfect little wife and maid! Five years without a break—laundry, cooking, the kid. Did anyone thank me? No! Now I’m having fun with my friends, and there’s no men involved. Alfie’s at his nan’s, happy and fed. If Oliver’s got a problem, he can say it to my face!”
Oliver admitted Charlotte changed when she returned to work. Weekdays, she played the perfect spouse—but weekends were for “letting loose.” He wanted to stop the parties but was afraid: “She’ll explode, and it’ll get worse.” Margaret is horrified. “My son’s too soft—he won’t put his foot down,” she frets. “What if she doesn’t stop? What if she drinks herself into trouble? What happens to the family then?”
Her friends ask, “Can’t Charlotte’s mother talk some sense into her?” Margaret just shakes her head. “Her mum thinks it’s fine. Says she’s young, she’s tired, let her dance while she can. The grandson’s with her, no bother. And since Oliver won’t speak up, it must mean he’s fine with it.”
Margaret doesn’t know what to do. She watches her son suffer, their marriage fraying at the seams. Oliver can’t work at home, and Charlotte shows no sign of returning to normal life. “It can’t go on like this!” she fumes. “If this keeps up, they’ll divorce, and Alfie will grow up without his dad!”
What would you do in Margaret’s place? How do you help your son without wrecking his family? Have you faced something like this before? Share your advice—things are reaching breaking point.
