My mother has never had the slightest desire to work. As long as my father was alive, she didn’t have to—he was the provider, and she was the housewife. But now that he’s gone, she believes that my wife and I should take care of her. The problem is, we don’t agree with that.
My mother got married very young—at just nineteen. My father was six years older, already had a degree, a stable job, and a steady income.
She used to love telling the story of how they fell in love at first sight—how her knees went weak, how the whole world faded away, and how she could only think of him.
For years, I believed in that romantic tale. But by the time I was fifteen, I saw things differently. My mother simply didn’t want to study or work. Marriage was her way out—it was the easiest way to secure her future without lifting a finger.
She quickly got pregnant, gave birth to me, and told my father that she wanted to dedicate herself entirely to raising me—no daycare, no babysitters, no outside help. He didn’t argue.
So, I never went to kindergarten, but I also wasn’t a difficult child. My mother would just leave me in the sandbox, and I entertained myself. If she gave me building blocks, I would spend hours playing alone.
My mother had no higher education, no training, and she had never worked a single day in her life. She was a “professional housewife.”
I never judged her—if my father was fine with it, who was I to criticize?
But when my father passed away, her whole world collapsed. She just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, while my wife and I arranged the funeral and wake. Over and over, she would mumble, “How will I survive? What am I going to do now?”
At first, I thought she was grieving. But soon, I realized—it wasn’t my father’s loss that devastated her. It was the loss of financial stability.
My father had left behind some savings, so she wasn’t completely penniless, but it was obvious the money wouldn’t last forever.
Six months after his death, she came up with a “brilliant” plan: sell our three-bedroom apartment and buy two smaller ones—one for her, one for me, but rent mine out so she could live off the rent.
It sounded clever, but in reality, it was completely unrealistic. Selling one apartment wouldn’t bring in enough money to buy two. And even if it did—why should I sacrifice my financial security just so she could continue her carefree life?
My wife and I were already paying off a mortgage—there was no way we could afford to support her too. So I told her directly: “Mom, you’re an adult. It’s time to get a job.”
She reluctantly agreed and found work at a local store. But then, the drama began—every single day, she complained: “I’m exhausted! My feet are swollen! I can’t live like this!”
Every week, she would call me crying, saying she couldn’t take it anymore.
Then, last winter, something real happened—she slipped on ice and broke her leg. She was in a cast for two months, completely unable to work. Naturally, she was let go. And once again, we had to step in.
We paid her rent, bought her food, covered her medical bills. What else could we do?
But once the cast was removed, she suddenly developed a whole new set of “illnesses.” She constantly complained about high blood pressure, migraines, back pain, dizziness.
Doctors found nothing serious, but she whined so convincingly that we continued to send her money.
But enough is enough!
This month, I finally reached my limit. I paid her bills, gave her a final $1,000, and said: “This is the last time. From now on, you’re on your own.”
She broke down, sobbing, accusing me of abandoning her.
But honestly? I don’t care anymore. She is a fully capable adult. If she refuses to work, she can find a wealthy man to take care of her. At 55, she still looks decent enough.
What do you think? Am I being too harsh, or am I doing the right thing?
