“Not a penny until she divorces him”—that’s what I told my daughter. I won’t help her another day unless she leaves that good-for-nothing husband of hers.
Our home is more like a battleground lately, and it’s not me and my husband arguing—it’s all because of our son-in-law. The man my daughter married is as lazy as they come. Over a year without a proper job, just odd jobs here and there, while he spends the rest of his time lounging about. Meanwhile, my daughter carries the weight of raising twins, all while on maternity leave. And him? He’s just… there.
She can’t work properly—those babies need constant care. I offered help, but on one firm condition: not a single pound more until she divorces that parasite. Helping her would mean feeding him too, and I refuse to fund anyone’s idleness.
I never liked Oliver from the start. Hoped it was just a phase, that she’d wise up. But no—they went ahead with the wedding. Youth, love, illusions—all of it clouded her judgment. Now we’re left dealing with the fallout.
We gave them Gran’s old flat—our only extra income from tenants, gone just like that. They had no money for rent, so we stepped in. All I asked was for them to give the place a fresh coat of paint, make it nice for the kids.
Oliver, true to form, just shrugged.
“I’m not doing that. I’m no handyman—I’m more of a thinker. Get professionals for that sort of thing.”
With what money, exactly? He hasn’t earned enough to buy a screwdriver. All he does is spout nonsense and whine about bad luck. Won’t work evenings, won’t lift a finger on weekends—claims he “needs his rest.” Acts like the world owes him a living.
When I called him out, he got huffy. “You’re being unfair.” And my daughter? Instead of backing me up, she snapped at me:
“Now you’ve made him upset. Why do you have to interfere?”
I washed my hands of it. Told her straight—if she’s made her bed, she can lie in it. No more begging for handouts. But then she got pregnant again—twins, no less—and I couldn’t bear it. I thought Oliver might finally step up. But no. Nothing. We ended up doing it all—finishing the flat, finding cots, even taking her to the doctor. Him? Still glued to the sofa with his laptop.
Emily tried her best, but I could see it dawning on her—what kind of man she’d married. Together, we managed to get the place sorted, all by ourselves. He chipped in eventually, some cheap sale buys, but that’s no excuse. When you’ve got a family, you act like a man. Not a lodger who leaves the hard work to others.
Then we found out how they were getting by—maxed-out credit cards. Not a word to us until the call came:
“Mum, we can’t manage. Please, help…”
I was furious.
“Emily! You had children with a man who won’t even change a lightbulb! What did you think would happen?”
“It’s just a rough patch…”
“Rough patch? You’ve got a home, parents who’ve done everything—and he can’t even hold down a job? ‘Pay’s too low,’ ‘commute’s too far,’ ‘hours don’t suit’—excuses, the lot of it!”
“You don’t understand… He’s looking! He won’t work for pennies!”
“Well, we’re the ones living on pennies now! You, your kids, him—all on our backs!”
I’d had enough. No more being their cash cow.
“Until you divorce him, don’t come begging. You want him? Fine. But you’re on your own.”
She burst into tears.
“You want my kids growing up without a father?”
And I said what I’d held back too long:
“Better no father than one like him. Better that than a man who lives off everyone else’s work.”
I’m her mother. But I won’t be a victim anymore. I want to see her raise those children with a proper man, not a burden. I want her to respect herself—not come crying while he sits there sipping tea and eating biscuits. I’ve given all I can. And now—enough is enough.
