My father-in-law started coming over every single day. I don’t mind guests, but he eats everything we’ve got. I tried talking to my wife, but it’s no use.
Six months ago, my wife Sophie and I made a tough but necessary decision—to move to another town. Before that, we lived on the outskirts of Birmingham, working together at a factory. Things were decent—not lavish, but we got by. We understood each other without words, never argued, never complained. But everything changed overnight when the layoffs started at work. First Sophie was let go, then me.
We barely had any savings—two kids, mortgage payments, and what little we earned went straight to food and bills. It felt like everything was falling apart. That’s when her father, my father-in-law, stepped in. He lived in Liverpool, renting out his one-bed flat on the edge of town. The place wasn’t in great shape, needed work, but at least it was a roof over our heads.
We moved in—I was truly grateful. At the time, it felt like a lifeline. The first month was hell: hardly any money, stretching meals for the kids, scraping together bills. I hunted for jobs with no luck. I wanted to give up, but I kept going. Sophie took care of the house and the kids while I tried to find anything just to stay sane.
When I got my first pay packet from the new job, I nearly cried. I could breathe again. Worked late, came home exhausted, but with a sense we were crawling our way back. I started giving my father-in-law some cash—for the rent, as thanks. Thought things were looking up. But it turned out, the worst was just beginning.
He started visiting. A lot. First just “dropping by for a minute,” then “coming for lunch with the grandkids,” until it was every day. And not to help—not with laundry, repairs, or watching the kids. He’d plant himself at the kitchen table, turn on the telly, and eat. Everything. In sight.
Sophie cooked—breakfast, lunch, dinner. I’d come home to empty pots. I noticed groceries vanishing from the fridge. I stayed quiet. Put up with it. Then she started complaining too—said she was exhausted, cooking nonstop while food disappeared. I looked at her and thought: we’ve got two kids… why do we need a third, grown one?
I finally spoke to him. Calmly, no shouting. Told him we appreciated the help, that he was family, but… we were struggling too. He nodded, said he understood. For a while, he backed off. Even brought pastries once, a whole chicken another time. But after a couple weeks, that effort faded. Back to his old routine—an apple for the kids, the rest of our dinner for himself.
I talked to Sophie again. She just shrugged. “Dad helped us… it’s his flat… he loves the kids.” End of discussion. My patience was wearing thin. I’m working myself to the bone, skipping meals, wearing shoes with holes, still in the same old coat. And here’s this man, treating our fridge like his own.
No one’s on my side. My parents live miles away, mates have their own problems. Father-in-law doesn’t notice a thing, Sophie won’t acknowledge it. I don’t know what to do. Yeah, he helped. But how long does that last? I’m worn out. This doesn’t feel like home anymore.
And here we are. The factory where we used to work shut down for good. Old coworkers scattered, none coming back. We’re hanging by a thread. Every day, this place—once full of hope—feels more like a trap.
