My mother-in-law was furious when we refused to take in her university-aged son.
My husband and I have been married for eleven years. We live in our modest two-bedroom flat in Manchester, which we worked hard to pay off on the mortgage. We’re raising our nine-year-old son, and by all accounts, life was moving smoothly—until my mother-in-law’s latest “brilliant” idea shattered the peace.
My husband has a younger brother, Oliver. He’s seventeen now, and truth be told, we’ve never been close. My husband barely speaks to him—the age gap is too wide. And it’s always grated on him how their parents have coddled Oliver, spoiling him rotten, excusing every failure, letting him coast through life without lifting a finger.
Oliver’s grades are dreadful, barely scraping by in school, yet for every borderline pass, he’s rewarded—a new gaming console, trainers worth hundreds. My husband has said more than once, “If I’d brought home a D, they’d have made me study for days. He gets gadgets for it!”
I stand with him completely. We’ve watched Oliver refuse to lift a finger—won’t even heat up his own food. Sits at the table until his parents set his plate, fill his glass, clear up after him. Not a word of thanks, just pushes back his chair and stalks off to his room. Doesn’t know where his socks are, can’t boil a kettle, can’t keep track of his own things. Utterly dependent. My husband tried warning his mother—”You’re turning him into a helpless child!”—but she’d brush it off. “He’s not like you. He needs more care.”
Arguments, silent treatments, weeks of tension—typical fallout from these talks. We kept our distance, avoiding the drama. Until Oliver suddenly announced he wanted to study at a university in our city. That’s when the real madness began.
My mother-in-law, without a hint of shame, suggested moving Oliver in with us. “The halls won’t take him without proof of address, he can’t afford rent, and he can’t manage alone!” she insisted, as if it were the most reasonable request in the world. “You’re family! Your flat has space for everyone!”
I tried to be diplomatic—our bedroom, the boy’s room—where exactly were we meant to fit another grown man? And then, her eyes lit up. “We’ll put another bed in your son’s room! They’ll be like brothers!”
That’s when my husband snapped. “I’m not his babysitter, Mum! You want to dump your ‘child’ on us? No. He’s your son—you deal with him! I was living on my own at seventeen, and I managed just fine!”
Her face twisted, tears welled, and she called us heartless before storming out. Later that evening, my father-in-law rang, guilt-tripping us. “This isn’t how family treats each other! You’re abandoning your own brother!”
But my husband didn’t waver. He said he’d visit Oliver, help if they rented him a place—but he wasn’t moving in. “Stop treating him like a helpless toddler. He needs to grow up.”
“He’s only seventeen!” his father argued.
“I was seventeen when I moved out. And I survived!” he shot back before hanging up.
My mother-in-law called a few more times—my husband ignored it. Then came the text: “Don’t expect a penny from us when we’re gone.” Frankly? If “inheritance” comes with strings attached—a lifetime of responsibility for a spoiled, useless man—then no, thank you. We’ve earned what we have through hard work, through building our own lives.
Everyone reaps what they sow. And if someone chose the path of indulgence and laziness, they can deal with the consequences. We owe them nothing.
