We gave our son everything we could, and now we’re just “poor losers” to him.
I’m fifty, my husband is fifty-five. We’ve always lived modestly but happily, supporting each other through thick and thin. Together, we raised our son, Oliver. He just turned twenty-three and announced he wants to move out. At first, we took it in stride—it’s a natural step at his age. But his decision hid something far uglier.
Oliver made it clear he has no intention of renting. He believes we, as his parents, owe him his own flat. He even laid out a plan: sell our cosy two-bedroom home—the one filled with memories—and use the money to buy two one-bedroom flats, one for us and one for him.
I was speechless. This isn’t just a house; it’s our home, our sanctuary, where we’ve poured our hearts into every corner. It holds our shared past, the good and the hard times.
My husband refused outright. He’s old-school, believes a grown man should earn his own way, save, and build his own life. And I understand him. We’re not wealthy, but we gave Oliver everything: nice clothes, extracurriculars, tutors, university fees, food, medical care. When he wanted his room redecorated, we made it happen.
But apparently, it wasn’t enough. Oliver is ashamed to still live with us at his age—he thinks it’s embarrassing. So, in his mind, it’s only fair we sell our home for his comfort.
When his dad said no, Oliver exploded in such a rage it chilled me to the bone. He shouted that “proper” parents provide their children with homes, that we’re failures, not a real family, and that he never asked to be born. “You should’ve thought about that first,” he spat in his own father’s face.
Now, we barely speak. My husband insists he’ll calm down, that it’s just a phase. But I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering—what if he’s right? If we brought him into this world, were we supposed to set him up completely? And if we couldn’t, did we fail as parents?
Then I steady myself. We gave him everything. Absolutely everything. And him? He still lives in his childhood room, pays nothing toward bills, offers no help. Not even a “thank you.” No responsibility, no gratitude. Just demands.
Yes, we’re not rich. But we worked hard. We gave him love, a roof over his head, food, care, an education. We didn’t abandon him, betray him, drink away our problems, or raise a hand to him. And now that he’s grown, we’re just “poor losers” to him?
Maybe it sounds harsh, but a bloke of twenty-three can jolly well rent his own place. He’s a grown man, not a toddler. Choosing to guilt-trip his parents instead—that’s on him, not us.
Tell me—are we really such awful parents? Or do we have the right to say “no” when we’re expected to sacrifice our last shred of security for someone else’s entitlement?
