My son brought home his new wife and her two kids. Now every day feels like hell.
For three years now, I’ve been stuck in this never-ending nightmare. It all started when my son, Daniel—a grown man in his mid-thirties—brought his new wife, Rebecca, into our small two-bedroom house in Manchester. She already had two kids from her first marriage. At first, he said it was just temporary. “Temporary.” How many times have we women believed that word?
Three years later, and our home isn’t just crowded—it’s overrun. Me, Daniel, his wife, her two kids, and… she’s pregnant again. Seems God decided my old age wouldn’t come with peace or comfort. Maybe I’m being punished for something.
Rebecca isn’t disabled, isn’t ill—she’s barely thirty. But she refuses to work. Says she’s “too busy with the kids.” Funny thing is, those kids are at nursery every morning. Rebecca? She’s not at work. She’s out shopping, at her mate’s place, or getting her nails done. Wherever the money’s going, I don’t know.
Daniel swore things would change—they’d sort the paperwork, she’d get a job, they’d rent a place or take out a mortgage. I believed him. I’m his mum—I’ll always hope. But a year passed, then another, now it’s been three. Nothing’s changed. Except Rebecca’s bump has grown.
I can’t say she’s outright rude. She doesn’t snap at me, she speaks politely. But she does nothing around the house. Won’t mop the floors, wash the dishes, or cook. Doesn’t even properly watch her own kids—sticks a tablet in their hands and scrolls on her phone. By evening, it’s silence from her and chaos from them.
All the chores land on me. Up at 4 AM, working as a cleaner at two offices, scrubbing floors, back by 8, and there’s no time for even a cuppa—laundry, cooking, cleaning. While they’re gone, I’m elbow-deep in grease, washing clothes, making lunch. Because when my son and his wife come home, they expect food. More chores, dinner, and only after 9 PM do I finally sit down. Sometimes I just stand in the kitchen and cry. Helpless.
My pension barely covers the bills and groceries. Daniel’s wages don’t stretch far with this lot. And Rebecca? Officially “on maternity leave”—long before she even qualified for it.
I tried talking to Daniel. Told him the house is too small, there are too many of us, it’s wearing me down, my health’s failing. Ended up in hospital—blood pressure spiked while I was cooking. The doctor warned me: no more stress. Daniel just shrugged and said, *”Mum, it’s my house too. We’ve got nowhere else to go. Just deal with it.”*
That was that.
That’s my thanks.
That’s my son.
I’m thinking of leaving. Borrow, take a loan, find somewhere—even if it’s tiny, even if it’s run-down. Just for silence. Just to be alone. Because I can’t take another baby in this chaos. This isn’t living—it’s surviving.
I don’t live anymore. I serve. I’m a slave. In my own home. In my old age. And the worst part? Not one of them stops to think how I feel. They just carry on, waiting for me to cook, clean, stay quiet.
I want to scream, but I bite my tongue. I can’t take much more, but I keep going. Because otherwise—it’s filth, hunger, cold. Because I’m a mother. A grandmother. Because I’m alone.
