My mother-in-law got really upset because we didn’t want to take in her student son.
My husband and I have been together for eleven years now. We live in a two-bed flat in Manchester, which we’ve worked hard to pay off on the mortgage. We’re raising our eight-year-old son, and everything seemed to be going just fine—until my mother-in-law had this *brilliant* idea that stirred up trouble yet again.
My husband has a younger brother, Ethan. He’s seventeen, and honestly, over the years, we’ve barely had much to do with him. My husband hardly ever talks to him—there’s a big age gap. Plus, it’s always annoyed him how their parents spoil Ethan rotten, letting him get away with everything while never lifting a finger.
Ethan’s grades are shockingly bad—he’s barely scraping by at school. And yet, for every barely-passing mark, he gets rewarded—new trainers, a tablet, whatever. My husband’s said more than once, *”If *I* got a D, they’d make me study non-stop, but *he* gets gadgets for it!”*
I’m totally on his side. We’ve seen Ethan refuse to even heat up his own food right in front of everyone. He’ll sit at the table until his mum and dad serve him, feed him, clear up after him. No *”thanks,”* no *”see you later.”* Just gets up and walks off to his room. Doesn’t know where his socks are, can’t make a cup of tea, mixes up his own things. His parents do absolutely everything for him. My husband’s been trying to tell his mum for ages—*”You’re turning him into a liability!”*—but she just waves him off: *”He’s not like you. He needs more affection.”*
Arguments, silent treatments for weeks—that’s how these talks always ended. We just tried to stay out of it. Until Ethan suddenly decided he wanted to go to uni here in Manchester. And *that’s* when the fun started.
My mother-in-law, without a shred of shame, suggested Ethan move in with us. *”He won’t get student housing—no local ties, renting’s too expensive, and he can’t manage on his own. You’re *family*! You’ve got a two-bed, there’s space!”* All said with total confidence.
I tried to gently explain—one bedroom’s ours, the other’s our son’s. Where exactly is a grown teenager supposed to fit? And then she hits me with: *”We’ll just put another bed in your son’s room—they’ll bond!”* Like it’s no big deal.
That’s when my husband snapped. He cut her off sharply—*”I’m not a babysitter, Mum! You just want to palm him off on us? No. He’s *your* son—*you* deal with him! I was living on my own at seventeen, and I did just fine!”*
My mother-in-law burst into tears, called us heartless, and stormed out. That same evening, my father-in-law rang, laying on the guilt—*”This isn’t how family behaves! You’re abandoning your brother!”*
But my husband stood his ground. Said he’d visit Ethan if *they* rented him a place, but he wasn’t living with us. *”Stop treating him like a helpless baby. It’s time he grew up.”*
*”He’s only seventeen!”* his dad argued.
*”I was *seventeen* when I moved out on my own! And guess what—nobody coddled *me*!”* He hung up, furious.
After that, his mum called a couple times—he ignored her. Then came the text: *”Don’t expect anything from us when we’re gone.”* Honestly? If that *”inheritance”* means taking responsibility for a spoiled bloke who can’t so much as boil an egg—no thanks. We’ve already earned our *own* life, our *own* family, our *own* peace.
Everyone’s got to own their choices. If someone’s raised a kid to be entitled and lazy—that’s *their* mess to clean up. We don’t owe anyone a thing.
