“Not a penny until she dumps that layabout”: I told my daughter I won’t help her anymore unless she leaves her deadbeat husband.
These days, our house shakes more from rows than from the tube trains—not between me and my husband, but thanks to our son-in-law. The man my daughter married is the sort who confuses leisure with a full-time career. Over a year without a proper job, just the odd gig here and there—otherwise, he’s glued to the sofa like a permanent fixture. Meanwhile, my daughter juggles two toddlers while on maternity leave. And him? He exists.
She can’t work full-time—those twins demand constant attention. I offered to help. But with one firm condition: not another pound unless she divorces that parasite. Helping her would mean feeding him too, and I refuse to subsidise laziness.
I never liked Oliver from the start. Hoped it was just a phase, that she’d come to her senses. But no—they went ahead with the wedding. Youth, love, rose-tinted glasses—it all blinded her. Now we’re dealing with the fallout.
We gave them Gran’s old flat. Used to have tenants in it, our only extra income on top of the pension. But the lovebirds couldn’t afford rent, so we stepped in. Just asked them to freshen the place up a bit—make it nice for the kids.
Oliver’s reaction? Classic.
“I’m not doing that. I’m not a handyman, I’m a creative. Hire professionals.”
With what money, exactly? He hasn’t earned enough to buy a screwdriver. All he’s good for is philosophising about how life’s unfair. Can’t work evenings—too tired. Weekends? Reserved for “recharging.” Spoilt rotten, if you ask me.
When I called him a layabout to his face, he sulked. “You’re being unfair.” And my daughter? Instead of backing me up, she snapped:
“Now you’ve made us argue again. Why can’t you stay out of it?”
So I stepped back. Made it clear: you made this mess, you sort it. No more handouts. But then she announced she was pregnant again—with twins, no less—and my heart sank. Thought Oliver might finally pull himself together. Nope. Radio silence. We ended up doing everything: finishing the flat, hunting down cribs, even taking her to check-ups. Him? Still on the sofa, glued to his laptop.
Emily tried her best, but you could see the penny dropping—she’d married a dud. Somehow, we got the flat ready. All hands-on—except his, of course. He did eventually buy something in the sales, but that’s hardly heroic. When you’ve got a family, you step up. He’s more like a lodger who forgot to pay rent.
Then we found out how they were scraping by—maxed-out credit cards. Not a word to us. Hid it. Then came the call:
“Mum, we’re drowning. Please—help.”
I lost it.
“Emily! You had kids with a man who can’t even change a lightbulb! How did you think this would work?”
“We’re just going through a rough patch—”
“What patch? You’ve got a home. You’ve got parents bankrolling your life. And him? Too picky for any job—pay’s too low, commute’s too far, hours don’t suit!”
“Mum, you don’t get it… He’s looking! He just won’t settle for peanuts!”
“Meanwhile, we’re living on peanuts! You, your kids, him—all on our dime!”
I’d had enough. No more being the family ATM.
“No divorce? Then don’t come asking. Stay with him if you want—but don’t expect us to foot the bill.”
She sobbed. “You want my kids to grow up without a father?”
So I said what I’d been biting back for years:
“Better no father than one who’s dead weight. Kids don’t need a role model who leeches off others.”
I’m her mother. But I’m done being a doormat. I want my daughter raising kids with a man—not a millstone. I want her to respect herself, not beg for help while he snacks on digestives. I’ve given all I can. Now—enough.
