Our daughter gathered us around the table to share joyful news. After dinner, we asked her and her husband to leave the house.
I don’t understand young people these days. They seem to have lost all sense of reason. Our daughter, Emily, recently arranged a family dinner—supposedly festive, with salads, cake, candles. She called us all together—me, my husband, our grandson, and her spouse. We all live cramped in a modest three-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Living in such tight quarters is hard enough. And then this…
When Emily and James married, we took them in straight away. It happened fast—she was pregnant, the wedding was rushed, everything felt half-real. We didn’t judge, just helped as best we could and offered them a place to stay while they saved for their own home. We told them, “Put money aside, even just for a deposit. We understand, but once the baby’s older, it’ll be unbearable.”
They nodded, made promises. But in reality—nothing. Just empty words, zero action. Living like children under our roof, not a shred of gratitude. We bore it, though my husband and I have our own aches, our own need for quiet. For Emily’s sake, we stayed silent.
Then, at the dinner table, Emily grinned, eyes shining. My husband and I exchanged glances—maybe they’d finally decided to move out?
But no. Emily raised her glass, swept her gaze over us, and announced:
“Mum, Dad… I’m pregnant!”
My head spun. I stared, disbelieving. The room tilted. I wanted to laugh—or scream. Another child? In this tiny flat? Where?
“Emily, have you lost your mind?” My husband’s voice was low, rough. “Six people crammed in here? Or did you assume we’d keep playing babysitter?”
Emily didn’t even flinch. She must have expected embraces, cheers. Instead, silence.
“I thought you’d be happy,” she muttered. James jumped in:
“We hoped for support, but you’re shutting us down. This is our family!”
“Yours?” I snapped. “And what are we? Maids? Bankers? We begged you—save for your own place! Now another mouth to feed? We can’t.”
After dinner, no one spoke. The next morning, Emily didn’t even say hello. They were offended. At us. For not leaping with joy. For not celebrating another baby in this shoebox, another wail in the night, another pram blocking the hall.
My husband and I talked. Calm. Firm. Enough. We shouldn’t have to sacrifice our peace, our years, our quiet. They’re nearly thirty. Time to grow up.
I faced Emily and said plainly:
“We love you. But you’re adults. Want another child? Fine. Raise it in your own home. We won’t be your safety net anymore.”
She burned with fury. Called us cruel, said “no decent parents act this way.” But I already acted—babysitting their son, spending my pension on nappies, cooking, ironing. No more.
They packed, found a rented flat. Left in a huff. We stayed—in our three-bedroom. In silence. Knowing we did right, though it hurt. Sometimes, to make someone grow up, you have to let go. Even your own child.
