“Since it’s not my flat, I’m not lifting a finger!”—those were the words from my daughter-in-law that made me rethink everything.
Once, I genuinely considered putting one of my flats in my son’s name. I thought, *Well, let them have their own place, start fresh, no more renting struggles.* But after what I saw and heard from his wife, the very idea now makes my skin crawl. No, let them save up themselves—the flat stays mine. And if they ever divorce? I’ll breathe a sigh of relief. Because it’s not just that I disapprove of my son’s choice—I’m downright frightened by it. His wife, Emily, turned out to be one colossal disappointment.
Her family’s perfectly ordinary—no lofty connections or airs—yet she carries on like she was raised in a mansion with staff. Her parents are quiet, down-to-earth folk, nothing like their daughter, who fancies herself royalty. She’s got basic qualifications, works as an office manager, earns an average wage—but money slips through her fingers like sand. Blows it all in days, then guilts my son for more. Constantly. Without a shred of shame.
When they got booted from their rented place after the wedding, out of sheer goodwill, I let them stay with me until my other flat (still with tenants) freed up. Didn’t have to, but I did it for my son. And oh, how I regretted it almost instantly. The moment Emily crossed the threshold, her face twisted in disgust. She glanced around like she’d stepped into a derelict shed—never mind that my place is tidy, clean, perfectly decent.
“Am I supposed to sleep on the *sofa*? Couldn’t your mum at least give up her bed?” she snipped at my son.
Oh, the *sofa* wasn’t good enough! Yet in their rented hovel, she’d slept just fine without complaint. And my son—once so headstrong, so sure of himself—turned into a doormat around her. Bends over backwards, tolerates it all. I barely recognise him. What she’s done to him, I’ll never understand.
The months under one roof were pure torment. After work, I’d dart to my room just to avoid them—anything not to see Emily’s permanent sneer. We didn’t speak, and thank heavens for that.
When they finally moved into the other flat, I nearly wept with relief. Then, ever so gently, my son started probing: “Mum, any plans for the flat? Fancy putting it in my name?” Oh, I knew *exactly* where that came from. Not his idea—Emily’s whispering in his ear. I shut it down fast:
“That flat stays in my name. It’s my safety net for old age, so I’m not a burden on you. Live there, save up for your own place. Besides, it’s hardly ideal—old layout, needs work.”
He seemed to get it. Dropped the subject. We saw less of each other after that—life moves on, and I kept my nose out.
Then, last week, my son invited us for his birthday. At their place. I walked in—and froze. The filth was staggering. The hob crusted with grease like it hadn’t seen a sponge in years. Sticky floors, dust thick enough to write in, unpacked boxes everywhere. Pure chaos. Even the guests were side-eyeing it.
Emily’s mum, ever diplomatic, murmured, “Love, why’s it so… untidy here?”
Emily’s reply finished me:
“Why should I bother? It’s not *my* flat. Not cleaning someone else’s mess.”
Her mum just gaped. “But you cleaned your rentals! They weren’t yours either!”
My son stood there, silent. I saw it in his face—disgust. He grew up in a home where things were *kept*. Now this… squalor. It’s eating at him, but he says nothing. Because once, he loved her. Now? That spark’s gone. Just habit, or dread, left.
I didn’t say a word to Emily. Just held her gaze. He won’t stick this out forever. And deep down? I’m waiting for the divorce. Bitter as it sounds, I’d be *relieved*. Because my son deserves warmth, care—a proper partner. Not this sulking, thankless girl who finds fault with everything but herself.
