My father-in-law started coming over every single day. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind visitors, but he eats us out of house and home. I tried talking to my wife about it, but it’s like talking to a brick wall.
Six months ago, me and my wife, Emily, had to make a tough call—we moved cities. Before that, we lived on the outskirts of Birmingham, both working at the same factory. Life wasn’t lavish, but we got by. We understood each other without words—no fights, no grudges. Then everything changed overnight when the layoffs started. First Emily got the boot, then me.
We barely had any savings—two kids, a mortgage, and every penny went on food and bills. It felt like the world was crashing down. That’s when her dad, my father-in-law, stepped in. He lived over in Manchester and had a small flat on the outskirts. The place wasn’t exactly posh—needed a bit of work—but it was a roof over our heads.
Moving there felt like a godsend at the time. That first month was hellish. Money was tight, we barely scraped together meals for the kids, juggling bills like a circus act. I hunted for jobs—nothing. Felt like giving up, but I kept at it. Emily took care of the house and kids, and I just tried to stay sane.
When I finally got my first paycheck at the new job, I nearly cried. Could breathe again. Worked late every night, came home exhausted, but at least it felt like we were climbing out of the hole. Started giving my father-in-law a bit of cash—for utilities, just to say thanks. Thought things were looking up. Turns out, it was just the start.
He started dropping by. A lot. At first, it was just popping in for a cuppa, then lunch with the grandkids, then—every single day. And not to help, mind you. Not to fix a tap, watch the kids, nothing. He’d plant himself in the kitchen, telly on full blast, and eat. Everything. In. Sight.
Emily cooked—breakfast, lunch, dinner. I’d come home to empty pots. Noticed groceries vanishing from the fridge. Kept quiet at first. Then she started complaining—said she was knackered, cooking non-stop while food just disappeared. I looked at her and thought, we’ve got two kids… why’s there a third, grown-up one?
So I bit the bullet. Had a calm chat with him. Said we were grateful for the place, that he was family, but… times were hard. He nodded, said he understood. For a while, it worked. Brought pies once, even a roast chicken. Two weeks later? Back to square one. An apple for the kids, then straight to our dinner.
Tried talking to Emily again. She just shrugged. “Dad helped us… it’s his flat… he just loves the kids.” End of story. Meanwhile, I’m grinding day and night, wearing shoes with holes, same old jacket for years. And here’s this man, acting like he lives here, clearing out the fridge without a second thought.
No backup. My parents live miles away, mates are drowning in their own problems. Father-in-law’s oblivious; wife won’t see it. And I’m stuck. Yeah, he helped. But how long’s this gonna go on? I’m exhausted. This place, which started as hope, feels more like a trap every day.
The factory where we used to work’s shut down for good now. Old colleagues scattered—no one’s coming back. We’re hanging by a thread. And I swear, this flat, which was supposed to be our fresh start, just feels smaller and smaller. Like walls closing in.
