My name is Lauren. I’m forty-two years old. I have a family—a husband and two wonderful children. We live abroad, in England, where we moved fifteen years ago. It was our deliberate choice to start fresh: to escape poverty, build a decent life, and create a home where our children could grow up happy.
We come from a small village in Wales. After we married, we lived with our parents—mine and his—taking turns. But after three years, it became clear that if we wanted peace and harmony, we had to leave. So we did.
At first, it was difficult. We worked low-paying jobs, saving every penny. I babysat, and my husband washed cars. We rented a tiny flat on the outskirts of London. But we did it together—saving, struggling, and slowly improving our lives. A few years later, our son was born, followed by our daughter. By then, we had residency, a mortgaged flat, and jobs that let us thrive, not just survive.
Our children go to school, join clubs, and grow up loved and respected. We aren’t rich, but we have enough. We’ve never asked for help. Everything we’ve built, we’ve earned.
And then, the calls from my parents started. Mum and Dad stayed in the village. In all these years, they’ve never visited. They’ve never sent the children a gift or a word of thanks. I’ve sent money when I could, paid for medicine, mailed parcels. In return? Only complaints. “You’re living like royalty in London while we’re stuck in misery!”
Then came the final straw. Mum announced, “We’ve decided to move in with you. There’s nothing left for us here. You’ve got warmth, food, the kids nearby.” Of course, they expected us to pay for everything—and house them indefinitely.
I was stunned. This wasn’t a request. It was a demand.
Did they ask if it suited us? If we could afford it? If we even had space? No. Just, “Now it’s your turn to look after us.” But did anyone ever look after me?
When I was ill, Mum never came. When we barely had food in those first months in England, she didn’t even send tea. When our children were born, there wasn’t so much as a rattle or a blanket from their grandparents. And now I’m supposed to sacrifice my peace, my home, my family—for those who once turned away from me?
I’m not heartless. I help—financially, emotionally. But I won’t let my children grow up in tension, listening to complaints and tantrums. I won’t let my husband retreat from his own home because his mother-in-law lectures him.
Why should my children share a room because Grandma insists she needs more space? Why should my husband live where he’s treated like a servant—expected to drive, feed, and clean up after others?
Why should we all become caretakers just because someone wants a comfortable old age?
Some will say, “But they gave you life!” But is biology enough to define parenthood?
As a child, I never got gifts. No birthday cakes, no celebrations. My clothes were secondhand, my shoes replaced every other year. We never went on holiday. I wasn’t loved—I was tolerated.
Yes, they raised me. But I grew up in spite of them, not because of them.
Now I’m told I owe them. That I must “give them a dignified old age.” But did I steal their youth? I won’t let my children lose their peace to pay for someone else’s mistakes.
It might sound selfish, but I choose my children. I choose my husband. I choose our home—warm, bright, and full of love. Free from fear, guilt, and the past’s burdens.
I’ll help my parents. But I won’t let them ruin my life. Not for duty, not for “family.” My children deserve their own future—one that isn’t sacrificed for others’ choices.
