I’m 42, and I absolutely don’t want my parents moving in with me.
My name is Emily. I’m forty-two, married with two wonderful kids. We live abroad, in Spain, where we moved fifteen years ago. It was a conscious decision to start fresh—escape poverty, build a decent life, and give our children the chance to grow up happy.
We’re from a tiny village in Yorkshire. After the wedding, we lived with both sets of parents, taking turns. But within three years, it was clear—if we wanted peace and harmony, we had to leave. So we did.
At first, it was tough. We took low-paying jobs, scrimping every penny. I babysat; my husband washed cars. We rented a shoebox flat on the outskirts of Madrid. But we did it together. We saved together, climbed together. A few years later, our son was born, then our daughter. By then, we had residency, a mortgaged flat, and jobs that let us do more than just survive.
The kids go to school, join clubs, grow up loved and respected. We’re not wealthy, but we manage. We don’t ask for help. We built this ourselves.
And then—the calls from my parents. Mum and Dad stayed in the village. In all these years, they never once visited. Never sent the kids so much as a birthday card or a thank-you. I sent money when I could, paid for medicine, shipped parcels of clothes. In return? Just guilt trips. “You’re living like kings in Spain while we’re left to rot!”
Then came the final straw. Mum announced, “We’re moving in with you. There’s nothing left for us here. You’ve got warmth, food, the grandkids nearby.” And of course, they expected us to pay for everything—and house them.
I was stunned. This wasn’t a request. It was a demand. An order.
They didn’t ask if it suited us. If we could afford it. If we even had space. No. Just, “Now it’s your turn to take care of us.” But did anyone ever take care of me?
When I was ill—Mum didn’t come. When we starved those first months in Spain—she didn’t even send a tin of biscuits. When the kids were born—not a single rattle or onesie from Grandma. And now I’m supposed to give up my peace, my home, my family—for the people who once gave up on me?
I’m not heartless. I help—financially, emotionally. But I won’t let my kids grow up in a house full of tension, listening to complaints and tantrums. I won’t let my husband hide out in the pub to escape his mother-in-law’s lectures.
Why should my children share a room because Grandma thinks she “needs more space”? Why should my husband live in a house where he’s treated like a chauffeur, cook, and cleaner? Why should we all become servants just because someone wants a cushy retirement?
I know what some will say. “They gave you life!” But does biology alone make you a parent?
Growing up, I never got presents. No birthday cakes, no holidays. My clothes came from charity shops, shoes once every two years. Not one family trip. I wasn’t loved—just tolerated.
Yes, they raised me. But I grew up despite them, not because of them.
Now I’m told I owe them. Owe them a “comfortable old age.” Did I steal their youth? I won’t rob my children of their peace. I won’t pay for someone else’s mistakes.
Call it selfish—but I choose my children. I choose my husband. I choose our home, where there’s light, warmth, and love. Not fear, not guilt, not old debts.
I’ll still help my parents. But I won’t let them wreck my life. Not for duty, not for “family.” My children have their whole lives ahead. And I won’t let those lives be sacrificed for someone else’s choices.
