The Useless Son-in-Law, or How My Daughter Traded Common Sense for Love
When my Emily first brought her beau home, my heart sank at once. There was something about that smug lad—his cocky swagger, that plastered grin—that set alarm bells ringing. Not a man, but a peacock: all flashy charm and smooth talk, yet hollow underneath. Irresponsible, flighty, and never satisfied. He changed jobs more often than people switch coats with the seasons—always underpaid here, a “daft” boss there, or hours that “just don’t suit him.” In short, the world was against him, and never his own fault.
I tried to reason with my daughter. Pleaded, warned her a man ought to be a rock in marriage. But love had blinded her. My husband—her dad—shrugged it off: “She’s grown, let her learn the hard way. Our job is to stand by her.” I tried to accept it. Her happiness mattered more than my gut feeling. But how could I stay calm? Years of raising her, sacrificing, only for her to tie herself to this layabout?
We’d given her every advantage: a top university degree, a flat we bought, a nice car. All so she’d have an easy start. And what does she do? At 25, she marries a man whose only skill is whinging.
The wedding went ahead. I attended, but my heart wasn’t in it. Then their life together began. At first, it was tolerable. While Emily worked, they scraped by. But once she went on maternity leave—the calls started. “Mum… could you spare some cash for groceries?” Of course I helped. My girl’s a new mother—I know how tough that is. But where was *her husband* in all this?
Soon, the truth was plain: he’d quit *again*. Not for lack of jobs—he just couldn’t be bothered. Lounging about, glued to his phone or telly, full of excuses. His parents? Somewhere up in Yorkshire, didn’t even bother with the wedding. No help from them. The burden fell on us.
I bit my tongue for ages. Knew any criticism would stir trouble. But one day, I snapped. Laid it bare: “You, *Liam*, are a grown man acting like a spoiled teen. Won’t work, won’t provide. What’s the point of you?”
Emily threw a fit. Liam, suddenly remembering his pride, landed a job—lasted two months, as usual. Then quit: “Toxic workplace,” “rubbish pay.” Emily defended him like clockwork: “You don’t *get it*, Mum, the management’s awful…”
Then I walked in one day, arms full of shopping, to find him sprawled on the sofa, remote in hand, while Emily—dark circles under her eyes—bounced their crying baby. That’s when I’d had enough. “Why not try courier work? You’ve got the car, the license.” He looked at me as if I’d asked him to shovel manure. “Beneath me,” he sneered. “What about parenting?” I shot back. “Not a man’s job,” he said.
So I made my stand. Harsh, maybe—but necessary: “Either step up, or we cut you off. We’re not your keepers.” Emily sobbed, called us heartless. “*I love him!*” she cried. Three years of this. When does she start loving *herself*?
We’d never abandon her or our grandchild. They’ll always have a home with us. But Liam? That door’s shut. We’re not a charity. My husband backed me fully: “Better alone than with dead weight.” We pray Emily wakes up—if not for herself, then for her child.
For now? We love her from a distance. Enough to spare *ourselves* the pain. Because if she won’t see the mess she’s in, no one can save her.
