“Not a penny more until she divorces him,” I told my daughter—no more help while that layabout remained under her roof.
Day after day, our home trembled not from quarrels between my husband and me, but because of the son-in-law who had wedded our girl. That man—if he could even be called one—was idleness personified. For over a year, he had barely lifted a finger, taking odd jobs now and then but mostly lounging about while my daughter shouldered the household alone. She worked part-time between tending to their twin toddlers, though still on maternity leave. And him? He simply existed.
I offered to step in, but on one condition—harsh, yes, but necessary: not a shilling more until she left him. Helping her meant feeding him too, and I refused to subsidize indolence any longer.
From the start, I disliked Edmund. Foolishly, I hoped it might pass, that Alice would come to her senses. But youth, love, and illusions blinded her—they married. Now, we reaped the consequences.
We’d given them Gran’s old flat, where tenants once paid rent, padding our pension. But the young ones couldn’t afford their own place, so we yielded. Just one request: freshen it up for the children’s sake.
Edmund’s response?
“I won’t lift a hammer. I’m no handyman—I’m a thinker. Hire someone.”
With what money? He’d not earned enough to buy a screwdriver. All he did was spout empty philosophies and whine of misfortune. Evenings? Too tired. Weekends? For rest. A man grown accustomed to being carried.
When I called him a layabout to his face, he sulked. “You’re unfair,” he muttered. And Alice? Scolded me instead.
“Now we’ve rowed again—why must you interfere?”
So I stepped back. But warned her plainly: if she chose this path, she’d walk it alone. No begging later. Then came the twins—my heart sank. Surely Edmund would change? Not a whit. We painted walls, hunted for cots, even accompanied her to the midwife. Him? Still sprawled on the sofa, glued to his laptop.
Alice struggled, though I saw the dawning truth in her eyes. Together—just us two—we readied the flat. He did, eventually, buy some sale-priced trifle—no apology for a man who let others labour while he loafed.
Then we discovered their secret: a maxed-out credit card. Not a word until the call came—
“Mum, we’re drowning—please.”
Fury seized me.
“Alice! You bore children by a man who won’t change a lightbulb! How did you imagine this would end?”
“It’s just a rough patch—”
“Rough patch?” I near shouted. “You’ve a home, parents propping you up—and him? Too proud for honest work unless the wage pleases him!”
“You don’t understand—he’s looking! Just not for scraps!”
“Scraps?” I hissed. “We live on scraps—you, those babies, him—all on our backs!”
I’d had enough.
“Not another coin while he’s your husband. Stay with him if you must—but don’t come begging.”
She wept. “You’d have my children fatherless?”
I spoke the bitter truth long held back:
“Better no father than one who leeches. A true man provides—not preys.”
I am her mother. But no martyr. I’ll see my girl raise children beside a man—not a millstone. She must learn her worth, not plead for aid while he sips tea and nibbles biscuits. I gave all I could. Now—enough.
