My mother-in-law is upset that we refused to take in her university student son.
My husband and I have been together for eleven years. We live in our modest two-bedroom flat, which we’ve only just managed to pay off the mortgage on after years of hard work. We’re raising our eight-year-old son, and by all accounts, life is going well—until my mother-in-law had another “brilliant” idea that disrupted our peace.
My husband has a younger brother, Oliver. He’s seventeen now, and truthfully, we’ve never been close. My husband barely interacts with him—the age gap is too big. What’s more, he’s always been frustrated by how their parents coddle their youngest, spoiling him, excusing his laziness, and letting him get away with everything.
Oliver barely scrapes by in school, nearly failing most of his classes. Yet for every barely-passing grade, he’s rewarded—a new phone, designer trainers. My husband has said more than once, “If *I* had failed, I’d have been grounded and forced to study for weeks. But *he* gets gifts for it!”
I completely agree. We’ve watched Oliver refuse to lift a finger, even when it comes to heating up his own food. He sits at the table, waiting for his parents to serve him, feed him, clean up after him. No “thank you,” no “goodbye”—just up and gone afterward. He doesn’t know where his socks are stored, can’t make himself a cup of tea, and can’t keep track of his own belongings. Everything is handed to him. My husband has repeatedly tried talking to his mother, warning that she’s raising him to be helpless, but she just waves him off, saying, “He’s not like you. He needs more care.”
Arguments, sulking, weeks of silence—that’s how these conversations always end. We kept our distance, trying to avoid the drama—until Oliver suddenly decided to apply to a university in our city. That’s when things got interesting.
Without a hint of shame, my mother-in-law suggested *we* take him in. Apparently, halls won’t accept him—no local ties—and renting privately is too expensive. “You’re *family*!” she insisted, utterly confident. “You’ve got a two-bed, there’s enough space!”
I tried to gently explain: our bedroom, our son’s room—where exactly was an extra adult meant to fit? That’s when she lit up with her grand solution: “We’ll just put another bed in your son’s room! They can share!” As if that wasn’t a problem—boys bonding, right?
But my husband had had enough. He cut her off sharply.
“I’m not a live-in babysitter, Mum! You just want to pawn off your ‘baby’ on us? No. He’s *your* son—*you* deal with him. I was *living* on my own at seventeen. I managed just fine!”
She flared up, burst into tears, called us heartless, and stormed out. That night, my father-in-law rang, scolding us.
“Family doesn’t treat family like this! You’re abandoning your own brother!”
But my husband didn’t budge. He said he’d *visit* Oliver—if they rented him a place—but living with us wasn’t happening. “Enough treating him like an infant. It’s time he grew up.”
“He’s only seventeen!” his father argued.
“And *I* was seventeen when I moved out,” my husband shot back before hanging up.
After that, his mother called a few more times—he ignored her. Then came the text: *”Don’t expect anything in the will.”* Honestly? If that “inheritance” is the price of taking on a spoiled adult, they can keep it. We’ve earned what we have—through hard work, our own family, our own peace.
People must take responsibility for their choices. If someone chooses a life of indulgence, let them deal with the consequences. We owe no one a thing.
