Our daughter gathered us around the table to share some happy news. After dinner, we asked her and her husband to leave.
I don’t understand young people these days. Common sense seems to have completely left them. Our daughter, Emily, recently hosted a family dinner—nothing out of the ordinary, just a celebration with salads, cake, and candles. She invited all of us—me, my husband, our grandson, and her spouse. We all live together in a modest three-bedroom house on the outskirts of Manchester. Living in such close quarters is challenging enough. But then…
When Emily married David, we welcomed them into our home straight away. It happened quickly—she was pregnant, they rushed the wedding, everything felt haphazard. We didn’t judge, we helped however we could, and suggested they stay with us to save for their own place. We told them, “Put money aside, at least for a mortgage deposit. We understand, but when your child grows, it’ll only get more crowded.”
They nodded and agreed, but in reality? No action. Just empty promises. They lived like children under our roof, not a word of gratitude. We put up with it, even though my husband and I have our own aches and pains, our own need for peace and order. But for Emily’s sake, we stayed quiet.
So there we were, sitting around the dinner table. Emily beamed, eyes shining. My husband and I exchanged glances: “Maybe they’ve finally decided to move out?”
But no. Emily raised her glass, looked around, and announced:
“Mum, Dad… I’m pregnant!”
My head spun. I stared at her, stunned, as if the floor had dropped beneath me. I wanted to laugh from sheer disbelief or burst into tears. Another child? In this tiny house? Good grief…
“Emily, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” my husband asked quietly, fists clenched. “Where do you expect six of us to live? Or did you assume we’d keep playing nanny forever?”
Emily wasn’t even embarrassed. She must have expected us to jump up, hug her, congratulate her. But that didn’t happen.
“I thought you’d be happy…” she mumbled, and David jumped in:
“We hoped for support, and you instantly turn on us. This is our family!”
“Yours?” I snapped. “Then what are we? Maids? Bankers? We told you—save up for your own home! Instead, you’re adding another mouth to feed. Sorry, but we can’t do this anymore.”
After dinner, no one spoke. The next day, Emily didn’t even say hello. They were furious. With us. Because we didn’t leap for joy, because we weren’t thrilled about another baby in this cramped house—more crying at night, another pram in the hallway, more walls closing in.
My husband and I talked. Calmly. Firmly. We agreed: enough. We couldn’t—shouldn’t—sacrogate our lives, our peace, our own golden years. They’re nearly thirty. Time to grow up.
I went to Emily and said it plainly:
“We love you. But you’re adults. Want a second child? Fine. Raise them in your own home. We can’t be your safety net anymore.”
She exploded. Called us cruel, said, “No parents would do this.” But forgive me—I already *did* this. I babysat their son, spent my pension on nappies, cooked their meals, ironed their shirts. Now? No more.
They packed their things, found a rental, and left in a huff. We stayed—in our three-bedroom house. In silence. With the quiet certainty we’d done the right thing, hard as it was.
Sometimes, the only way for someone to grow up is to let go. Even if it’s your own child.
