I’m 42, and I absolutely don’t want my parents moving in with me.
My name’s Emily. I’m forty-two, married with two lovely kids. We’ve lived abroad—in London—for fifteen years now. Moving here was our fresh start, a way out of poverty, somewhere we could build a decent life and give our children the happiness we never had.
We’re originally from a tiny village in Yorkshire. After we got married, we bounced between my parents’ house and his—it was chaos. Three years in, we knew if we wanted peace, we had to leave. So we did.
At first, it was tough. We took whatever jobs we could—I worked as a nanny, my husband washed cars—scraping together every penny. We rented a tiny flat on the outskirts of town, counting every pound. But we stuck it out together. Years later, we had our son, then our daughter. By then, we had residency, a mortgage on a small house, and jobs that meant more than just surviving—we were actually living.
The kids are in school now, doing clubs, growing up loved and safe. We’re not rich, but we’re comfortable. We’ve never asked anyone for help. We did this ourselves.
And then—the calls from my parents. They never visited, not once. Never sent so much as a birthday card for the kids. No thanks, just complaints: *”You’re living the high life in London while we’re stuck here like paupers!”* I’ve sent money when I could, paid for prescriptions, posted clothes. All I got back was guilt.
Then came the final straw. Mum announced: *”We’re moving in with you. There’s nothing left for us here. You’ve got warmth, food, the grandkids around.”* And of course, they expected us to pay for it all—and house them.
I was stunned. It wasn’t a request. It was a demand.
No asking if we *could*—financially, physically, emotionally. No thought if we even have the space. Just: *”It’s your turn to look after us.”* But who looked after *me*?
When I was sick—Mum didn’t come. When we were barely eating those first months in London—not even a care package. When the kids were born—not a onesie, not a toy from them. And now I’m supposed to upend our peace, our home, for people who left me to fend for myself?
I’m not heartless. I *do* help—money, calls, whatever I can. But I won’t let my kids grow up walking on eggshells, listening to their grandparents’ nagging. I won’t watch my husband hide in the shed just to escape my mother’s lectures.
Why should my kids share a room because Grandma *”needs space”*? Why should my husband live like he owes my parents chauffeur service and free lodgings? Why do we all become servants just because they want a cushy retirement?
I know what people will say: *”But they gave you life!”* But is biology really all parenting is?
Growing up, there were no birthday cakes, no holidays. My clothes came from charity shops, shoes once every other year. I wasn’t loved—I was tolerated.
Yes, they raised me. But I didn’t thrive *because* of them. I survived *despite* them.
Now I’m told I *owe* them. Owe them a *”comfortable old age.”* But did I steal their youth? I won’t sacrifice my kids’ peace to pay for someone else’s mistakes.
It might sound selfish—but I choose my children. I choose my husband. I choose our home, where there’s laughter and comfort, not dread or old debts.
I’ll help my parents. But I won’t let them wreck what we’ve built. Not out of guilt, not for *”family duty.”* My kids deserve better than to pay for choices they never made.
