My father-in-law began coming to our house every day. I don’t mind visitors, but he eats everything we have. I tried talking to my wife, but it’s useless.
Six months ago, my wife, Eloise, and I made a difficult but necessary decision—to move to another city. Before that, we lived on the outskirts of Birmingham, working together at a factory, and life had been bearable. We weren’t living lavishly, but we weren’t starving either. We understood each other without words. There were no arguments, no resentment. But everything changed suddenly when layoffs began at the plant. First, Eloise was let go, then me.
We had almost no savings—two children, debts, and whatever we earned went straight to food and bills. It felt as though everything was falling apart. And in that moment, her father—my father-in-law—reached out. He lived in another town, in Manchester, and rented out his small flat on the outskirts. The flat was in poor condition, needing repairs, but at least it was a roof over our heads.
We moved in—I was genuinely grateful to him. At the time, it felt like salvation. The first month was hell: we barely had any money, scraping together meals for the children and paying the bills. I searched for work—to no avail. I felt hopeless, but I kept going. Eloise took care of the home and the children while I tried to find something, anything, to stay sane.
When I received my first advance at the new job, I nearly wept. I could breathe again. I worked late into the night, coming home exhausted but with the sense that we were crawling back from the brink. I started giving part of my wages to my father-in-law—for the bills and as a token of gratitude. I thought things were looking up. But as it turned out, they were only getting worse.
He began visiting. Often. At first, it was just “dropping by for a moment,” then “having lunch with the grandchildren,” and soon—every single day. And, unfortunately, not to help. Not to wash up, fix things, or mind the children. He sat at the kitchen table, turned on the telly, and ate. Everything. In. Sight.
Elouise cooked—breakfast, lunch, dinner. And when I returned home, I found only empty pots. I began noticing food vanishing from the pantry. I stayed silent. I endured. But eventually, even she started complaining—she was exhausted. She said she cooked from dawn till dusk, yet the food just disappeared. I looked at her and thought: we already have two children… do we need a third, grown one?
I gathered my courage. I sat down with my father-in-law to talk—no shouting, just calmly. I explained that we understood, that we were grateful for the roof over our heads, that he was family—but we were struggling too. He nodded, said he understood. And for a while, he eased off. He started bringing pastries, even brought a chicken once. But after a fortnight, his “generosity” faded. He returned to his old habits—an apple for the children, and the rest of our dinner for himself.
I spoke to Elouise again. But she only shrugged. “Dad helped us… it’s his flat… he just loves the children.” That was it. No more arguments. And I was at my wit’s end. I worked sunrise to sunset, penny-pinching for myself, wearing worn-out shoes and an old coat. And in the midst of it all—a man who came in and emptied our fridge as if he lived here.
I had no support. My parents were far away; friends had their own troubles to spare. My father-in-law noticed nothing, and my wife—well, she didn’t seem to want to. And I didn’t know what to do. Yes, he helped. But how long would this last? I was tired. I no longer felt like this was my home.
And so we stayed. The factory where we once worked had gone under completely. Our old colleagues had scattered, none of them coming back. We were on the edge. And with each passing day, this house—where everything had begun with hope—felt more and more like a cage.
