**Diary Entry – 11th of May**
My father-in-law has started coming over every single day. I don’t mind guests, but he eats everything we have. Tried talking to my wife, but it’s useless.
Six months ago, my wife, Eleanor, and I made a tough but necessary decision—to move to another town. Before that, we lived on the outskirts of Sheffield, working together at a factory. Life was manageable. Not luxurious, but we weren’t starving either. We understood each other without words—no quarrels, no complaints. Then everything changed overnight when the layoffs began. Eleanor was let go first, then me.
Savings were nearly nonexistent—two children, mortgage payments, and whatever we earned went straight to food and bills. It felt like everything was crumbling. That’s when her father stepped in. He lived in Nottingham, renting out his one-bedroom flat on the outskirts. The place wasn’t in great shape—needed repairs—but at least it was a roof over our heads.
We moved in. I was genuinely grateful. At the time, it felt like salvation. The first month was hell. Penniless, scraping together meals for the kids, juggling bills. I searched for work—nothing. I was ready to give up, but I pushed on. Eleanor managed the house and kids while I tried anything to stay sane.
When I got my first wage from the new job, I nearly cried. Started breathing again. Worked late, came home exhausted but with hope. Gave some money to her dad—for utilities, as thanks. Thought things were improving. Turned out, it was just the beginning.
He started visiting. Frequently. First “just popping by,” then “having lunch with the grandchildren,” until it was every day. And not to help—never to wash up, fix something, or watch the kids. He’d sit in the kitchen, turn on the telly, and eat. Everything. In sight.
Eleanor cooked—breakfast, lunch, dinner. I’d come home to empty pots. The fridge was raided. I bit my tongue. Then she began complaining—exhausted, cooking nonstop while the food vanished. I looked at her and thought: *We’ve got two kids… why do we need a third, grown one?*
I tried talking to him calmly. 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 sausage rolls once, a whole chicken another time. But two weeks later, his “effort” faded. Back to his routine—an apple for the kids, then helping himself to our supper.
When I brought it up with Eleanor, she just shrugged. *”Dad helped us… it’s his flat… he loves the kids.”* End of discussion. Meanwhile, I’m breaking my back, skimping on my own needs—worn shoes, an old coat—while he clears out our fridge like he owns it.
No support. My parents are miles away, friends drowning in their own troubles. He doesn’t notice; my wife won’t. I don’t know what to do. Yes, he helped. But how long does that last? I’m exhausted. This doesn’t feel like home anymore.
The factory we once worked at has gone under. Old colleagues scattered—no one comes back. We’re on the edge. And every day, this place—that once held hope—feels more like a cage.
**Lesson learned:** Help has a price. And sometimes, generosity comes with strings you never agreed to tie.
