The daughter gathered us around the table to share her joy. After dinner, we sent her and her husband out of the house.
I no longer understand today’s youth. They seem to have completely lost all common sense. Our daughter, Emily, recently arranged a family dinner—supposedly a celebratory one, with salads, a cake, and candles. She gathered everyone—me, my husband, our grandson, and her own spouse. We all live together in an ordinary three-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Living in such close quarters is already a trial. But this…
When Emily married James, we took them in straight away. It just happened—she got pregnant, they rushed the wedding, everything was sudden and thoughtless. We didn’t judge, we helped as best we could, and offered them a place to stay so they could save for their own home. We told them: “Put some money aside, even if it’s just for a deposit on a mortgage. We understand, but when the baby grows, it’ll be even more cramped here.”
They nodded, agreed. But in reality? No initiative. Just empty promises, talk, and no action. Living like children under our roof, not even a word of gratitude. We endure it, though my husband and I have our own aches, our own age—we crave peace, order. But for Emily’s sake, we keep quiet.
So there we were, sitting around the dinner table. Emily was smiling, her eyes bright. My husband and I exchanged glances: “Maybe they’ve finally decided to move out?”
But no. Emily raised her glass, looked at us, and said:
“Mum, Dad… I’m pregnant!”
My head spun. I froze, staring at her, unwilling to believe it. The ground seemed to vanish beneath me. I wanted to laugh from sheer helplessness or break down crying. Another child? In this tiny flat? Good God…
“Emily, do you even understand what you’re doing?” My husband’s voice was low, heavy. “Where do you think the six of us will live? Or do you expect us to keep babysitting for you?”
Emily didn’t even flinch. She must have expected us to rush over, hug her, congratulate her. But that didn’t happen.
“I thought you’d be happy…” she muttered, and James jumped in:
“We hoped for your support, not an attack. This is our family!”
“Yours?” I snapped. “And what does that make us? Servants? Bankers? We’ve been telling you—save up for your own place! And you—another mouth to feed, another burden. Sorry, but we can’t do it anymore.”
After dinner, no one spoke. The next day, Emily didn’t even say hello. They were angry. At us. Because we didn’t leap for joy. Because we weren’t thrilled at the thought of another baby in this overcrowded flat—more crying at night, another pram in the hallway, another reason to rearrange our lives.
My husband and I talked. Calmly. Firmly. We decided: enough. We can’t—and shouldn’t—keep sacrificing our lives, our peace, our hard-earned comfort. They’re nearly thirty. Time to grow up.
I went to Emily and said it plainly:
“We love you. But you’re adults. Want another child? Fine. Raise them in your own home. We can’t keep being your safety net.”
She exploded. Called us cruel, said, “No decent parents would do this.” But forgive me—I’ve done plenty. Babysitting their son, spending my pension on nappies, cooking their meals, ironing their clothes. Now—enough.
They packed their things, found a rental flat. Left in a huff. And we stayed—in our three-bedroom home. In silence. With the unshakable feeling that we’d done the right thing, no matter how hard. Sometimes, for someone to grow up, you have to let go. Even if it’s your own child.
