My father-in-law started coming over every single day. I don’t mind visitors, but he eats everything we’ve got. I tried talking to my wife about it, but it’s no use.
Six months ago, my wife, Olivia, and I made a tough but necessary decision—to move to another town. Before that, we lived on the outskirts of Birmingham, both working at the same factory. Life was manageable—not lavish, but we got by. We understood each other without words, no arguments, no complaints. Then everything changed overnight when layoffs began at the plant. Olivia was let go first, then me.
We had almost no savings—two kids, a mortgage, and bills that ate up most of our wages. It felt like everything was falling apart. That’s when her father, my father-in-law, stepped in. He lived in Manchester, renting out his small, run-down flat on the outskirts. The place needed work, but at least it was a roof over our heads.
We moved in—I was genuinely grateful. At the time, it felt like a lifeline. The first month was brutal. Money was tight; we scraped together meals for the kids and paid the utilities. I searched for jobs with no luck. It was disheartening, but I kept going. Olivia took care of the house and kids while I tried to stay sane finding work.
When I got my first paycheck at the new job, I nearly cried. Slowly, things started looking up. I worked late, came home exhausted, but with a sense we were climbing out. I even gave my father-in-law some money—for bills, as thanks. I thought we were turning a corner. But it turned out the real challenge was just beginning.
He started visiting. Often. At first, it was just “dropping by for a cuppa.” Then “having lunch with the grandkids.” Soon, it was every day. And, honestly, not to help. Not to fix things, do laundry, or watch the kids. He’d sit in the kitchen, turn on the telly, and eat. Everything. In sight.
Olivia cooked breakfast, lunch, dinner—yet when I got home, the pots were empty. Food vanished from the fridge. I bit my tongue. But eventually, even she admitted she was exhausted. “I’m cooking all day, and it’s just gone,” she said. I looked at her and thought—we’ve got two kids. Do we really need a third, fully grown one?
I finally sat him down. Calmly, no shouting. Told him we were grateful, that he was family—but we were struggling too. He nodded, said he understood. For a while, he eased up. Brought pastries once, even a roast chicken. But after a few weeks, the effort faded. Back to his routine—an apple for the kids, then straight to our dinner plate.
I tried talking to Olivia again. She just shrugged. “Dad helped us. It’s his flat. He loves the kids.” End of discussion. My patience wore thin. I’m working myself to the bone, wearing worn-out shoes, my old coat fraying. And here’s this man, eating us out of house and home like he lives here.
I’ve got no support. My parents are miles away, friends swamped with their own problems. My father-in-law sees nothing; my wife won’t. And I don’t know what to do. Yes, he helped us. But how long will this last? I’m tired. This doesn’t feel like home anymore.
As for the factory where we used to work—it’s gone under completely. Old coworkers scattered, no one coming back. We’re hanging by a thread. And with each passing day, the place that once held hope feels more like a trap.
Sometimes, help comes with strings—and learning to untangle them is the hardest lesson of all.
