It’s been three years now. When my son Andrew brought his new wife into our home—a woman with two children from her first marriage—I never imagined what my life would turn into. At first, he insisted it was temporary, that they’d only stay with me for a couple of months while they found their own place. But three years later, “temporary” has become permanent. To make matters worse, his wife, Emily, is now expecting his child. And every day of what should be my peaceful retirement feels more like a punishment.
We live in an inexpensive two-bedroom flat in a quiet suburb. Right now, the place is packed: me, my son, his heavily pregnant wife, and her two kids. Soon, there’ll be another baby. I’m not complaining about Emily—she’s polite, never raises her voice. But she doesn’t lift a finger around the house. Her children are in nursery, yet she doesn’t work, spending her days scrolling through her phone or meeting her girlfriends for coffee. Occasionally, she gets her nails done—and I dread asking whose money pays for it.
Andrew does have a job, yes. But his salary barely covers groceries and bills, especially with this many mouths to feed. The rest? That’s on me. My pension, plus the extra cash I earn scrubbing floors at two offices before dawn, rushing home by eight. You’d think we’d manage. But no—the sink’s piled high with breakfast dishes, lunch isn’t started, laundry’s overflowing, and the floor’s a mess. And, predictably, it’s all left to me.
Before the pregnancy, Emily at least did the odd shop or tossed together a meal. Now? Nothing. She claims her back aches. She drops the kids at nursery and vanishes, reappearing only when Andrew gets home. Someone has to cook, serve, clean—guess who? Not her. It’s always me. And I’m at my limit.
Once, I tried talking to my son. “Andrew, love, this flat’s too small for all of us—maybe you and Emily should consider renting somewhere?” He just shrugged. “Mum, half this place is legally mine, and we can’t afford it. Tough luck.” That stung. I’ve spent my whole life putting him first. Now all I get is “tough luck”?
Last month, I collapsed in the kitchen—my blood pressure spiked, and I nearly took a frying pan down with me. The paramedics rushed me to hospital. The doctor’s orders were clear: rest, calm, no stress. But how? This house is a circus.
The kids aren’t to blame, of course. But between them, Emily’s endless needs, and Andrew’s indifference, my golden years have become an endless slog. After lunch, I try to lie down—my feet throb, my back screams. But soon, I’m up again, cooking dinner, tidying up. By evening, the place is bedlam: kids screeching, fighting, crying. Peace left this flat a long time ago.
Lately, I’ve been wondering if my only escape is a tiny, dingy bedsit—somewhere I could finally breathe. No crashing pots, no tossed toys, no expectations. But I’m scared. Scared of being alone. Scared of debt at my age. Yet even scarier? Feeling like a servant in my own home. The home where I hoped to grow old with warmth and care. Instead, I’ve got scraped-raw hands and a pulse racing like I’ve run a marathon.
