The Parasitic Son-in-Law, or How My Daughter Traded Common Sense for Love
When my Emily first brought her beau home, my heart sank. There was something about that smug young man—his cocky demeanour, his showy confidence—that set off alarm bells. Not a man, but a peacock: all flashy charm and empty promises. Irresponsible, frivolous, always dissatisfied. He changed jobs more often than people change their seasonal coats. One place paid too little, another had a “toxic boss,” and somewhere else the hours “didn’t suit him.” In short, everyone was to blame—except himself.
I tried to reason with my daughter. I pleaded, wept, explained that a man should be a rock, especially in marriage. But Emily was love-struck—deaf to sense. Her father, my husband, just shrugged. “She’s grown,” he said. “Let her learn the hard way. Our job is to stand by her.” I tried to accept it. Her happiness mattered more than my misgivings. But how could I stay calm? After years of raising her, investing in her, giving her everything—only for her to shackle herself to this lazy good-for-nothing?
We’d done everything for her: a top university, a flat in London, a reliable car—all so she’d have an easy start. And what did she do? At 25, she married a man whose only skill was whinging.
The wedding went ahead. I attended, stiff with dread. Then came their life together. At first, it was tolerable. While Emily worked, they scraped by. But once she went on maternity leave—the calls began. “Mum, can you lend us some money? Just for groceries…” Of course, I helped. My girl was struggling, and I knew how hard motherhood could be. But where was *he* in all this?
Soon, the truth was plain: the son-in-law had quit *again*. Not for lack of work—he just couldn’t be bothered. Lounging at home, glued to his phone or the telly, spinning excuses. His parents lived up in Yorkshire, hadn’t even come to the wedding—no help there. The weight fell on us.
I bit my tongue. Any criticism of her beloved would drive Emily away. But one day, I snapped. I laid it bare: “Listen, Daniel—you’re a grown man acting like a spoiled teen. You won’t work, won’t provide. What’s the point of you?”
Emily flew into a rage. Daniel, suddenly “inspired,” found a job—lasted two months, then quit. “Bad vibes,” “toxic coworkers,” “pennies for pay.” Emily, ever his apologist, parroted his excuses: “You don’t get it, Mum. The boss was awful…”
Then one day, arriving with bags of shopping, I found him on the sofa—remote in hand—while Emily, dark circles under her eyes, juggled the baby. I lost it. “Why not try courier work? You’ve got a car, a licence.” He looked at me like I’d told him to shovel coal with his bare hands. “Beneath me,” he said. I shot back, “Is childcare beneath you too?” His reply? “Not a man’s job.”
That’s when I drew the line. Harsh. Unpopular. Necessary. “Shape up, or we cut you off. We’re not your safety net.” Emily wailed, called us heartless. “I love him!” she cried. Three years of this—maybe it’s time she loved *herself*?
We’ll never abandon our daughter or granddaughter. They’ll always have a home with us. But the son-in-law? Done. We’re not a charity. My husband backed me fully. “Better alone than with dead weight,” he said. 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.
