June 10th, 2024
Our daughter gathered us all around the table tonight, beaming like she had something wonderful to share. After dinner, we ended up sending her and her husband packing.
I’ll never understand young people these days. Common sense seems to have gone right out the window. Our daughter Evelyn—or Evie, as we’ve always called her—had arranged a proper family dinner, the sort with roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, and a Victoria sponge for afters. Candles lit and all. She’d invited me, my husband, our grandson, and her own husband, James. The five of us already share a modest three-bed terrace on the outskirts of Leeds, and as it is, it’s a tight squeeze. So when Evie made this fuss, I should’ve guessed something was coming.
When she and James first married, we took them in without hesitation. It happened quickly—she fell pregnant, they rushed the wedding, and before we knew it, the pair were under our roof. We didn’t judge. We helped where we could, told them to save up, put something aside for a deposit. “You’ll want your own place soon enough,” we’d say. “With the little one growing, it’ll only get harder.”
They nodded along, promised they were saving. But in the end? Nothing. Just empty words. Lived like teenagers—no responsibility, hardly a “thank you” for the roof over their heads. We endured it, though. My husband’s knees aren’t what they used to be, and I could do with a bit of peace in my later years. Still, we kept quiet. For Evie’s sake.
Then tonight, there we were, the lot of us at the table. Evie was glowing, grinning from ear to ear. My husband shot me a look—*Maybe they’ve finally saved up?*
Not a chance.
She raised her wine glass, looked around the table, and announced, “Mum, Dad… I’m pregnant again.”
My stomach dropped. I stared at her, numb. Wanted to laugh, or scream, or both. *Another child?* In this cramped house? Where, exactly—the garden shed?
“Evie, have you *thought* this through?” my husband asked, quiet but firm. “Where do you expect to put a baby? Or do you plan on us raising this one too?”
She looked stunned, like she’d expected us to leap up and cheer. Instead, silence.
“I thought you’d be happy,” she muttered. James jumped in then, all defensive: “We were hoping for support, not this. It’s our family!”
“*Your* family?” I snapped. “And what are we, then? Your landlords? Your bank? We told you—save up, get your own place! Now you’re adding *another* mouth to feed? Sorry, love, but we can’t.”
The rest of the evening passed in icy quiet. Next morning, not so much as a “good morning” from Evie. *They* were the ones offended—because we weren’t over the moon. Because we didn’t fancy another baby crying through the night, another pram clogging the hallway, another decade of tiptoeing around their chaos.
Later, my husband and I talked. Properly. Decisively. Enough was enough. We’d given up enough of our peace, our retirement, our lives. They’re nearly thirty—time to grow up.
I found Evie and laid it out plain: “We love you. But you’re adults. If you want another child, brilliant. Raise them in *your* home. We won’t be your safety net anymore.”
She blew up. Called us cruel, said no decent parents would do this. But I *have* done it—babysat their son, dipped into my pension for nappies, cooked their Sunday roasts, ironed James’ shirts. Enough’s enough.
They left in a huff, found a flat to rent. And here we are—just us two, in our three-bed. Quiet at last. It’s hard, but it’s right. Sometimes, the only way to make someone stand on their own feet is to let go. Even when it’s your own child.
