My daughter-in-law turned our home into a party house, and my son won’t say a word!
*”My son called me nearly in tears,”* shares Margaret Wilkins, gripping her phone so tight her knuckles went white. *”He asked if he could come stay with us in York for a while—to work. His wife keeps dragging her friends over every single day, and he can’t focus at his desk! I nearly choked on my own outrage.”*
*”Did you let him stay?”* asks the neighbor, topping up her tea.
*”Of course I did!”* Margaret’s voice trembles with frustration. *”I’ve told him a hundred times—sort things out with your wife! Useless. He showed up looking wretched, starving, eyes bloodshot. Sat at the computer and didn’t move till midnight. Said some big project’s on the line, deadlines burning.”*
*”Why can’t he work at home? His wife’s bothering him?”*
*”Bothering? The place is like Grand Central Station!”* she sighs. *”One day it’s her sister, the next a pack of giggling mates. Noise, chaos, music shaking the ceiling. How’s a man supposed to think straight?”*
Her son, James, is a structural engineer. He and Emily have been married six years. At first, Margaret couldn’t have been prouder. Emily was quiet, well-mannered, had a degree in finance—practically perfect. And when little Oliver came along? *”What a homemaker! House sparkling, child spotless, James well-fed. I thought my boy had struck gold!”* she recalls, her voice heavy.
James climbed the career ladder while Emily stayed home. Three years in, he made senior engineer—but with the promotion came longer hours. Then, things changed. *”My bright, lively boy… he just dimmed,”* Margaret says, blinking fast. *”I thought work was crushing him—turns out, it was home.”*
Once, she dropped by their Manchester flat unannounced. Absolute mayhem. Emily’s mates everywhere, music blaring, laughter shrieking from the kitchen. James was barricaded in the bedroom, laptop glued to his knees—and no sign of Ollie. Turned out, Emily had shipped him off to her parents’ in the countryside. These “girls’ nights” had become routine. Every evening, some new excuse—birthdays, “just because,” dancing till dawn. James couldn’t concentrate. *”I walk in, the place looks ransacked. How am I meant to function?”* he’d moaned to her.
Margaret tried talking to Emily. The response was sharp: *”I’ve spent five years playing perfect little wife and maid—laundry, cooking, baby duty, no thanks from anyone. Now I’m having fun with my friends, no blokes around! Ollie’s happy with Gran. If James has a problem, he can say it to my face!”*
James admitted Emily changed after she went back to work. Weekdays, she’s all business—weekends, she’s a tornado. He’d love to ban the parties but won’t dare: *”She’ll explode, and it’ll get worse.”* Margaret’s horrified. *”He’s too soft—won’t put his foot down. What if Emily doesn’t stop? What if she spirals? What happens to their family then?”*
The neighbors ask, *”Can’t her mother talk some sense into her?”* Margaret shakes her head. *”Her mum thinks it’s fine. ‘She’s young, she’s tired, let her dance while she can.’ Ollie’s no burden to her. And since James stays quiet—apparently, he’s fine with it!”*
Margaret’s stuck. She watches her son suffer, their marriage cracking at the seams. James can’t work at home; Emily won’t dial it back. *”This isn’t right!”* she fumes. *”Carry on like this, they’ll divorce—and where does that leave Ollie?”*
What would you do? How to help without making things worse? Ever been caught in the middle like this? Spare some advice—this ship’s sinking fast.
