“If it’s not my flat, I’m not lifting a finger!” — those words from my daughter-in-law made me rethink everything.
There was a time I seriously considered putting one of my flats in my son’s name. Thought it’d give him and his wife a fresh start, no more wasting money on rent. But after what I saw and heard from his wife, the very idea makes my stomach turn now. No—let them save up for their own place. That flat stays mine. And if they ever divorce? I’d be relieved. Because it’s not just that I don’t approve of his choice—I’m afraid of it. His wife, Gemma, turned out to be a complete disappointment.
Her family’s ordinary, no fancy connections or money, but she acts like she was raised in a mansion with servants. Her parents are quiet, down-to-earth people—nothing like their daughter, who thinks she’s royalty. She’s got an average education, works as a manager on an average salary, but can’t manage money to save her life. Blows it all in days, then guilt-trips my son for more—constantly, shamelessly.
When they got evicted from their rented place after the wedding, I let them stay with me out of kindness while my other flat (with tenants) freed up. Could’ve said no, but did it for my son. And I regretted it almost instantly. The second Gemma stepped inside, her face twisted in disgust. Looked around like she’d walked into a hovel. Meanwhile, my place is nicely done up, always tidy—spotless.
“Am I supposed to sleep on the sofa? Couldn’t your mum at least give up her bed?” she snipped at him.
Oh, the sofa isn’t good enough? Funny, she managed just fine in their rented dump. And my son—always so strong-willed, full of character—turned into a doormat around her. Lets her walk all over him. I barely recognise him. What she’s done to him, I’ll never understand.
Those months under one roof were pure torture. After work, I’d dart straight to my room to avoid them. Just so I didn’t have to see Gemma’s permanent sneer. We didn’t speak—thank God.
When they finally moved into the other flat, I could breathe again. Then my son started testing the waters: “Mum, any plans for that flat? Fancy putting it in my name?” Knew straight away where that came from—Gemma’s whispering in his ear. I didn’t mince words:
“It stays in my name. That’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 not ideal for a young family—old layout.”
He seemed to get it. Dropped the subject, and we saw less of each other. Life moves on. I kept my distance.
Then recently, he invited us for his birthday. At their place. I walked in—and froze. The mess was unreal. The hob crusted with grease like it hadn’t been scrubbed in years. Sticky floors, dust everywhere, unpacked boxes stacked in corners. Total chaos. Even the guests noticed.
Gemma’s mum, trying to be polite, asked, “Love, why’s it so untidy here?”
Gemma’s reply finished me:
“Why should I bother? It’s not even my flat! Not cleaning up someone else’s mess.”
Her mum was speechless.
“But you cleaned your rented place—and that wasn’t yours either!”
My son just stood there. I saw it on his face—disgust. He grew up in a clean, orderly home, and now he’s living in this… pigsty. It’s eating at him, but he stays quiet. Because once, he loved her. Now? That spark’s gone. All that’s left is habit—or fear.
I didn’t say a word to Gemma. Just looked at her. Deep down, I know he won’t put up with this forever. And honestly? I’m waiting for the divorce. It’s harsh, but true. If they split, I’ll be glad. Because my son deserves more than indifference and whinging. He deserves warmth, care—a real woman. Not someone who’s never satisfied and can’t even say thank you.
