“Not a penny from us until she ditches that layabout,” I told my daughter, cutting off the financial lifeline until she leaves her deadweight husband.
Our house rattles with rows more often these days—not between me and my husband, but thanks to my son-in-law. The man my daughter married turned out to be the human equivalent of a deflated bouncy castle: lazy, useless, and taking up space. He hasn’t held a proper job in over a year—dabbling in odd gigs here and there—while my daughter shoulders everything, raising their twins on maternity pay. And him? He exists. That’s his full-time occupation.
I offered to help. With conditions. Firm ones: not a single pound until she divorces that freeloader. Because helping her means funding his lethargy, and I refuse to bankroll someone else’s sofa-based career.
I never liked Oliver from the start. Hoped it was just a phase, that she’d snap out of it. But no—they went and got married. Youth, love, rose-tinted glasses—they stole her common sense. Now we’re stuck mopping up the mess.
We handed them Grandma’s flat—our only extra income, really, since we’d rented it out to pad our pension. But the lovebirds couldn’t afford rent, so we caved. Just asked them to freshen the place up, make it nice for the kids.
Oliver’s response? *“Not my job. I’m a thinker, not a handyman. Hire someone.”*
With what money, exactly? The man hasn’t earned enough to buy a screwdriver. His talents? Philosophising and whinging about his *“bad luck.”* Can’t work evenings—too tired. Weekends? *“Rest time.”* Clearly, he’s allergic to effort.
When I called him a layabout to his face, he pouted. *“You’re being unfair.”* And my daughter? Instead of backing me up, she scolded *me*: *“Now you’ve made him sulk. Why do you always interfere?”*
I stepped back. Laid down the law: *“You made this bed—you lie in it. No more handouts.”* But then she got pregnant again—twins, no less—and my heart sank. Thought Oliver might finally step up. Nope. Zero initiative. We ended up finishing the nursery, buying cots, even dragging her to doctor’s appointments. Him? Still glued to the sofa, scrolling.
Emily tried, bless her, but the penny was dropping—she’d married a liability. Together, we patched up the flat (while he contributed a sale-priced lamp, like that fixed anything). If you’ve got a family, act like a man. Not a lodger who treats life like a buffet.
Then we discovered their *“financial strategy”*—maxed-out credit cards. Not a word, just panicked calls: *“Mum, we’re drowning. Help.”*
I lost it. *“Emily! You had kids with a man who can’t even change a lightbulb! How did you think this would work?”*
*“It’s just a rough patch—”*
*“Rough patch? You’ve got free housing! Parents breaking their backs! And him? Too picky for work—wrong pay, too far, bad hours!”*
I’d had enough. *“No divorce? No cash. Stay with him if you want, but don’t come crying.”*
She sobbed. *“You’d leave your grandkids fatherless?”*
I said what I’d bottled up for years: *“Better no father than that one. Kids don’t need a role model who leeches.”*
I’m her mother. But I’m done being a doormat. I want her to raise children with a partner, not a pet. To demand respect—not beg for help while he sips tea and nibbles digestives. I gave everything. Now? Enough.
