I’m 42 years old, and I absolutely do not want my parents moving in with me.
My name is Emily. I’m forty-two, married with two wonderful kids, and we’ve been living abroad in Spain for the past fifteen years. It was a deliberate leap—starting from scratch, escaping the grind back home, and building a life where our children could grow up happy.
We’re originally from a tiny village in Yorkshire. Early on, we juggled living with my parents, then his, but after three years, it was clear: if we wanted peace, we had to leave. So we did.
The first few years were rough. I worked as a nanny; my husband washed cars. We pinched every penny, renting a shoebox flat on the outskirts of Barcelona. But we did it together. Slowly, things turned around. Our son came along, then our daughter. We got residency, a mortgage on a modest flat, and jobs that let us live—not just survive.
The kids are in school, doing after-school clubs, surrounded by love. We’re not rolling in it, but we manage. We’ve never asked for handouts. We built this ourselves.
And then—the calls from my parents. They’ve stayed in the village all these years. Not once have they visited. Not a birthday gift for the kids, not even a thank-you. I’ve sent money when I could, covered prescriptions, posted care packages. In return? Just guilt trips: *”You’re living the high life in Spain while we’re stuck here!”*
Then came the final straw. Mum announced: *”We’re moving in with you. There’s nothing for us here. You’ve got warmth, food, the grandkids nearby.”* Oh, and of course, they expected us to foot the bill and house them indefinitely.
I was gobsmacked. This wasn’t a request. It was a decree.
No thought for whether we *could* host them, whether we *had* the space—just, *”It’s your turn now.”* But when was it ever *their* turn to help *me*?
When I was ill—no visits. When we scrimped through those first months abroad—not even a packet of biscuits. When the kids were born—not a onesie, not a cuddle from Grandma. Now I’m meant to upend our quiet, happy home for people who left me to fend for myself?
I’m not heartless. I *do* help—financially, emotionally. But I won’t let my kids grow up walking on eggshells, listening to constant gripes. I won’t have my husband sneaking out to avoid another lecture from his mother-in-law.
Why should my kids share a bedroom because Grandma fancies more space? Why should my husband be treated like a chauffeur, chef, and cleaner rolled into one?
Since when did *we* become the unpaid retirement plan?
I know what some will say: *”They gave you life!”* But is parenthood just biology?
Growing up, birthdays meant no cake, no parties. Clothes were secondhand, shoes lasted years. No family holidays. I wasn’t loved—I was tolerated.
Yes, they raised me. But I thrived *despite* them, not because of them.
Now I’m told I *owe* them a comfy retirement. But did I steal their youth? I won’t sacrifice my children’s peace to pay for someone else’s choices.
Call it selfish—I’m choosing my kids. My husband. Our home, where there’s laughter, warmth, and no ghosts of the past.
I’ll help my parents. But I won’t wreck what we’ve built. Not for guilt, not for duty. My children deserve better—and so do I.
