My son brought home his new wife with two children. Now every day is hell for me.
For three years now, I’ve felt trapped in a nightmare I can’t wake from. It all started when my son, Thomas, a grown man of thirty-five, moved his new wife into our cramped two-bedroom house in Manchester. Her name was Sophie, and she already had two kids from a previous marriage. He promised it was only temporary. *Temporary*. How often do we women believe that word?
Three years later, our house isn’t home to a family—it’s a barracks. Me, my son, his wife, her two children, and now… she’s pregnant again. Seems God, in my old age, has denied me peace, comfort, or even a moment to breathe. Clearly, I’m being punished for something.
Sophie isn’t ill or disabled—she’s just over thirty. But she refuses to work, claiming she’s “busy with the kids.” Except those kids are in nursery every morning. Sophie? She isn’t off to work—she’s off to meet friends, get her nails done, or wander about. Where? I’ve no idea.
Thomas swore at first they’d sort the paperwork, get their own place, move out. A mortgage, maybe. I believed him. I’m his mother—I always hope. But a year passed, then another, now a third. Nothing changes. Only Sophie’s belly grows.
She isn’t cruel, not outright. No rudeness, always polite words. But she does nothing in this house. No washing up, no cooking, not even proper care for her own children—just plonks them in front of the telly with snacks while she scrolls her phone. Come evening? Silence from her, chaos from them.
All the work falls on me. Up at four, cleaning two offices, scrubbing floors, back by eight—no time for tea before the next round of laundry, cooking, scrubbing grease off the kitchen. By midday, Thomas and Sophie return, expecting food. More chores, dinner, and only after nine do I finally sit. Sometimes I just stand by the sink and weep. From exhaustion.
My pension covers rent and groceries. Thomas’s wages don’t stretch to this crowd. And Sophie? Officially “on maternity leave”—long before she even was.
I tried talking to Thomas. Told him the house is too small, too crowded, my health’s failing—ended up in hospital when my blood pressure spiked at the stove. The doctor warned me: no stress, no strain. He just shrugged. *Mum, it’s my home too. We’ve nowhere to go. No money. So just bear with it.*
That was the whole conversation.
That was all the thanks I got.
That’s my son now.
I think of leaving. Borrowing, begging, anything to find a corner of my own. Even if it’s tiny, even if it’s a wreck. Just for silence. Just to be alone. Because I can’t take another child in this house. This isn’t living—it’s surviving.
I don’t live anymore. I serve. I’m a slave. In my own home. In my own old age. And the worst part? Not one of them spares a thought for how I feel. They just exist. Waiting for me to cook, clean, stay quiet.
I want to scream, but I bite my lip. I can’t take it, yet I do. Because without me? It’s dirt, hunger, cold. Because I’m a mother. A grandmother. Because I’m alone.
