Our home shakes with arguments more and more each day—not between me and my husband, but because of our son-in-law. The man our daughter chose to marry has turned out to be the laziest, most irresponsible person imaginable. He hasn’t held a job in over a year, picking up odd jobs here and there but otherwise lounging at home. Our daughter carries the entire family on her back, raising two little ones while on maternity leave. And him? He just exists.
Of course, she can’t work full-time—the twins need constant care. I offered to help, but with one firm condition: not another penny until she divorces that freeloader. Because helping her means, in some way, feeding him too—and I refuse to fund anyone’s idleness.
From the start, I disliked Oliver. I hoped it would pass, that she’d come to her senses. But no—they went ahead with the wedding. Youth, love, illusions—it all clouded her judgment. Now we’re left cleaning up the mess.
We gave them Grandma’s flat. It used to bring in rental income, a small but vital boost to our pension. But the newlyweds couldn’t afford rent, so we handed it over. Just one request: freshen it up a bit, make it cozy for the kids.
Oliver showed his true colours straight away.
*”I’m not doing that. I’m not a handyman—I’m a thinker. Hire professionals if it matters so much.”*
With what money, exactly? He hasn’t earned enough to buy a screwdriver. All he does is philosophize and moan about his bad luck. Won’t work evenings or weekends—he *”needs his rest.”* Clearly, he expects the world to serve him.
When I called him a waster to his face, he sulked. *”You’re being unfair.”* And our daughter? Instead of backing me up, she snapped:
*”Now we’ve fought again, thanks to you. Why can’t you stay out of it?”*
I stepped back. But I made it clear: if she’s made this bed, she can lie in it. No more running to us for handouts. Then we found out she was pregnant again—this time with twins—and my heart sank. I thought Oliver might wake up, but no. Not a flicker of responsibility. We ended up finishing the repairs, hunting down cots, even taking her to doctor’s appointments. Him? Still sprawled on the sofa, glued to his laptop.
Charlotte tried her best, but it was obvious—she was starting to see him for what he was. Together, we slogged through getting the flat ready, doing everything ourselves. He did chip in eventually, buying something cheap in a sale—but that’s no excuse. When you’ve got a family, you step up. He’s just another mouth to feed in a home where everyone else does the work.
Then we discovered how they were scraping by: a maxed-out credit card. They kept it hidden until the call came:
*”Mum, we can’t manage. Please help…”*
I was livid.
*”Charlotte! You had children 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—”*
*”Rough patch? You’ve got a home. You’ve got parents propping you up. And he won’t take a job—salary’s too low, commute’s too far, hours don’t suit him!”*
*”You don’t get it—he’s looking! He just won’t work for peanuts!”*
*”Well, we’re the ones living on peanuts! You, your kids, him—all on our backs!”*
I’ve had enough. No more being their cash cow.
*”Until you leave him, don’t ask us for another pound. Stay with him if you want—but you’re on your own.”*
She burst into tears.
*”You’d let my children grow up without a father?”*
I said what I’d held back too long:
*”Better no father than one like him. Better no example than a man who lives off others.”*
I’m her mother. But I won’t play the victim anymore. I want to see my daughter raise her children with a partner—not a parasite. I want her to respect herself—not beg for help while he sips tea and nibbles biscuits. I’ve given all I can. Now—enough.
