Our daughter gathered us around the table to share her joy. After dinner, we sent her and her husband out of the house.
I no longer understand today’s youth. It’s as if common sense has completely left them. Our daughter, Emily, recently arranged a family dinner—supposedly just a celebration, with salads, cake, candles. She called us all together—me, my husband, our grandson, and her own spouse. We all live crammed into a modest three-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Living in such close quarters is already a trial. And then…
When Emily and James married, we took them in straight away. It just happened—she fell pregnant, the wedding was rushed, everything felt unreal and hasty. We didn’t judge, we helped however we could and offered them a place to stay so they could save for their own home. We told them, “Put money aside, at least for a deposit on a mortgage. We understand, but once the baby grows, it’ll be even tighter.”
They nodded, agreed—but did nothing. Just empty promises, endless talk, and no action. They lived like children under our roof, not even a word of gratitude. We endured it, despite our own aches, our age, craving peace and order. But for Emily’s sake, we stayed quiet.
So there we were, sitting at the table. Emily was smiling, eyes shining. My husband and I exchanged glances: *Maybe they finally decided to move out?*
But no. Emily raised her glass, looked around, and said:
“Mum, Dad… I’m pregnant!”
My head spun. I froze, staring at her, not believing my ears. It felt like the ground had dropped away. I wanted to laugh from despair or burst into tears. Another child? In this tiny flat? Where?
“Emily, do you even realise what you’re doing?” My husband asked quietly, his voice heavy. “Where do you plan to fit all six of us? Or do you expect us to keep playing nursemaids?”
Emily didn’t even flinch. She must have imagined we’d leap up, hug her, shower her with congratulations. But we didn’t.
“I thought you’d be happy…” she mumbled, and James jumped in:
“We were hoping for support, not rejection. This is *our* family!”
“Yours?” I snapped. “And what are we? Maids? Bankers? We *told* you—save for your own place! But you—another mouth to feed, sorry, but we can’t do it anymore.”
After dinner, no one spoke. The next morning, Emily didn’t even greet us. They were angry. At *us*. Because we didn’t leap for joy. Because we weren’t thrilled at the thought of another baby in this cramped flat, another wail in the night, another pram in the hallway, another reason to wish the walls would stretch.
My husband and I talked. Calmly. Firmly. We decided—enough. We couldn’t, and shouldn’t, keep sacrificing our lives, our peace, our own years. They’re nearly thirty. Time to grow up.
I went to Emily and said it plainly:
“We love you. But you’re adults. Want another child? Fine. Raise them in *your* home. We won’t be your safety net anymore.”
She exploded. Called us cruel, said “no one treats their children like this.” But excuse me—I *did* treat her like a child. When I babysat her son, when my pension went on nappies, when I cooked their roasts and ironed their shirts. Now—enough.
They packed their things, found a rented flat. Left in a huff. And we stayed—in our three-bedroom home. In silence. With the quiet certainty that we’d done the right thing, no matter how hard. Sometimes, to make someone grow up, you have to let go. Even if it’s your own child.
