My husband grew up in a cheerful, affectionate household with his parents. But then, when my father-in-law was 57 years old, tragedy struckthe mother of the family passed away. Naturally, it was difficult for my father-in-law to bear such loss. That’s why we decided to sell his flat in Liverpool, split the proceeds between our family and my brother-in-law’s lot, and bring my father-in-law to live with us in Manchester until he could steady himself. That’s exactly what we did.
I imagined it would take six months, at most, for my father-in-law to find his footing, buy a place of his own, and move out. But it didnt happen. He grew quite fond of our home. He never offered a penny for council tax or groceries. I prepared his meals, laundered his jumpers, dusted his bookshelves. All he did was leave for work each morning. Like a holiday at a spa.
And so, eleven years ticked by with him lounging in our guest room. After a while, he began instructing us on when to eat and how to wash up, always fussing over how things “ought to be done.” At last, we decided to buy him a cottage near the edge of Preston and install him there. He was a strong, tall man; quite capable of living independently.
We arranged everything for himfurniture, utilities, the works. But my father-in-law began spinning tales about chest pains, breathlessness, all sorts of maladies. Anything to keep himself with us. But I couldnt stand the fuss anymore. I was worn out, drifting through this bizarre household, where logic spun backwards and the walls sometimes leaned in to listen.
