My son called me, nearly in tears, shared Margaret Thompson, clutching her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. “He asked if he could come stay with us in Manchester for a bit to get some work done,” she said. “His wife keeps dragging her mates round the house every day, and he can’t concentrate at his computer!” I could barely believe my ears.
“Did you let him come?” asked her neighbour, topping up her tea.
“Of course I did!” Margaret’s voice trembled with frustration. “I’ve told him a hundred times—sort things out with your wife! But it’s no use. He turned up exhausted, starving, eyes bloodshot. Sat at the computer and didn’t move till midnight. Said he had a big project, deadlines looming.”
“Why can’t he work at home? His wife’s bothering him?”
“It’s not a home anymore—it’s a blooming train station!” Margaret sighed. “One minute her sister’s round, the next a whole gaggle of friends. Noise, laughter, music turned up full blast. How’s anyone supposed to work in that?”
Her son, James, is a design engineer. He’s been married to Emily for six years. At first, Margaret couldn’t have been happier with her daughter-in-law. Emily was quiet, well-mannered, with a degree in economics. And when their grandson, Oliver, was born, Margaret thought she was perfect. “What a homemaker! Place spotless, the child well looked after, James never went hungry. I was over the moon for him,” she remembered wistfully.
James built his career while Emily was on maternity leave. In three years, he climbed to senior engineer, but the promotion came with longer hours. Then everything changed. “My boy, always so lively, so full of energy—he just faded,” Margaret said, fighting back tears. “I thought it was work troubles, but no—it was home.”
Once, she dropped by their flat in central Manchester unannounced. The place was in full swing—Emily had friends over, music blaring, laughter from the kitchen. James was locked in the bedroom, glued to his laptop, and Oliver was nowhere to be seen. Turned out Emily had sent him to her parents’ in the suburbs. These parties had become the norm. Every weekend—friends, her sister, dancing till all hours. A birthday one day, “just because” the next. James couldn’t work in that chaos. “I walk in, and it’s a right mess. How’s anyone meant to focus?” he’d complained.
Margaret tried talking to Emily. She snapped back, “I’m done being the perfect little wife and unpaid cleaner! Five years without a break—laundry, meals, the baby. Did anyone thank me? No! Now I’m having fun with my mates, and there’s no blokes here, is there? Oliver’s with his nan, happy and fed. If James has a problem, he can say it to my face!”
James had noticed the change when Emily went back to work. Weekdays, she was the model wife. But weekends? “She goes full throttle.” He wanted to put his foot down but was afraid. “She’ll fly off the handle, make it worse.” Margaret was beside herself. “My son’s too soft—he won’t stand up to her. And what if Emily doesn’t stop? What if she goes off the rails? What happens to their family then?”
Her friends asked, “Can’t Emily’s mum talk some sense into her?” Margaret just shook her head. “Her mum thinks it’s fine. Says the girl’s young, worn out, let her have fun while she can. Oliver’s no bother to her. And if James isn’t saying anything, he must be alright with it.”
Margaret didn’t know what to do. She could see her son suffering, their family unravelling. James couldn’t work at home, and Emily, it seemed, had no plans to settle back down. “This isn’t on!” Margaret fumed. “If this keeps up, they’ll split, and my grandson’ll grow up without his dad!”
What would you do in Margaret’s shoes? How do you help your son without tearing his family apart? Been through something similar? Share your advice—this is getting out of hand.
