“Not a single pound until she divorces him”—that’s what I told my daughter. I won’t help her anymore unless she leaves that good-for-nothing slacker behind.
Our house is constantly filled with arguments these days—not between me and my husband, but because of our son-in-law. The man my daughter chose to marry turned out to be lazy and completely irresponsible. He hasn’t held a proper job in over a year, just picks up odd jobs here and there, and the rest of the time? Sits around at home. My daughter’s the one carrying the weight—raising their twin toddlers while on maternity leave. And him? He’s just… there.
Of course, she can’t work full-time—those little ones need constant care. I offered to help, but on one condition: not a single penny more unless she divorces that parasite. Helping her just means feeding his laziness, and I refuse to keep funding someone who won’t lift a finger.
I never liked Dennis from the start. Hoped it was just a phase, that she’d come to her senses. But no—they went ahead and got married. Young love, rose-tinted glasses, all that nonsense clouded her judgment. Now we’re dealing with the fallout.
My husband and I gave them my late mother’s flat. We used to rent it out—that extra bit of income helped with our pension. But the kids couldn’t afford rent, so we handed it over. Just asked them to freshen the place up, make it nice for the little ones.
And what does Dennis do?
*“Not my problem. I’m not a handyman—I’m a creative. Hire professionals if you want it done.”*
With what money, exactly? He hasn’t earned enough to buy a screwdriver. All he does is spout nonsense and whine about his bad luck. Won’t work evenings, won’t work weekends—*“I need my rest.”* Thinks the world owes him everything.
When I straight-up called him a layabout, he got all huffy. *“You’re being unfair.”* And my daughter? Instead of backing me up, she turned on me:
*“Now you’ve gone and made him upset. Why do you always interfere?”*
So I stepped back. But I made it clear: if she’s dug herself into this mess, she can deal with it. No more begging for handouts. Then we found out she was pregnant again—twins, no less. My heart sank. Thought Dennis might finally snap out of it, but no. Nothing changed. We had to do everything—finishing the flat, tracking down cots, even taking her to doctor’s appointments. And him? Still planted on the sofa, glued to his laptop.
Emily’s trying her best, but it’s obvious—she’s starting to see the truth. We struggled through fixing up the place ourselves. He did eventually buy a few things on sale, like that’s some grand gesture. But when you’ve got a family, you step up. He’s just… a lodger in his own home, letting everyone else do the work.
Then we found out how they’ve been scraping by—maxed-out credit cards. Never said a word. Hid it. Until the call came:
*“Mum, we can’t manage. Please…”*
I was furious.
*“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 a home, parents supporting you, and he won’t take a job because the pay’s ‘too low’ or the commute’s ‘too far’? While we’re the ones pinching pennies?”*
I’ve had enough. No more being their cash cow.
*“Not another pound until you divorce him. Stay if you want, but you’re on your own.”*
She burst into tears.
*“You want my kids growing up without a father?”*
And I finally said what I’d been holding back:
*“Better no father than one like him. Than a ‘man’ who lives off everyone else.”*
I’m her mother. But I won’t be a victim anymore. I want to see her raise those children with someone who’s a partner—not a burden. Someone who makes her proud. Not begging for help while he lounges about with his tea and biscuits. I’ve given all I can. Now? Enough.
