Why I Let My Son and Daughter-In-Law Move In Is Still a Mystery to Me
I’m Vera Simmons, living in a two-bedroom flat in one of the suburbs of Birmingham. I’m sixty-three, a widow, and although my pension isn’t much, it suffices. When my son Martin married two years ago, I was thrilled like any mother would be. Young at thirty-one, and his wife, Emily, a couple of years younger. They married with nowhere to live. They said: “Mum, can we stay with you for a bit? We’ll soon save up for a mortgage deposit and move out.”
I foolishly felt excited, thinking I would have the joy of grandkids to look after. I let them in. Now, I’m not sure how to handle this situation. What was supposed to be a short stay has turned into two years, and it’s disruptive for all of us.
In the beginning, I tried to stay out of their way. They were a young couple adjusting to each other. I didn’t interfere; I cooked, cleaned—did everything expected. Then Emily got pregnant. It was early, but I thought it was meant to be. My grandson, Matthew, was born. A delightful child. But with his arrival, their “savings” vanished. We all know how costly a child is: nappies, formula, baby food—all expensive, and Emily insists on everything branded, fresh, imported.
I’m willing to help, but I’m not a maid. Yet, I find myself nannying, cooking, cleaning. Our new mum is always “exhausted.” She claims Matthew doesn’t let her sleep. So she lays in bed till noon, scrolling on her phone. The baby’s in the playpen, she’s on the couch, TV blaring, lunch made by me, floors mopped, and Matthew bathed. Emily still complains about being “overworked.”
And my son? Martin leaves for work, returns, eyes down, saying nothing. Whenever I try to talk—he waves me off with a “Mum, stay out of it.” Meanwhile, Emily behaves like she owns the place. I say one thing, she retorts with three, all loudly. Then Martin accuses me of “oppressing” his wife. Oppressing! The very woman I’m supporting!
I don’t know what to do anymore. I told Martin: “Son, find a rental. I’m worn out.” His response: “We’ve got no money, Mum.” I suggested: let’s swap flats. I’ll take a small one, and you save up, get a mortgage and live on your own. I’d help with the grandson as much as I can. But no, he just nods, and nothing changes.
I understand they’re young and it’s tough. But I’m no spring chicken. I have high blood pressure, joint issues, insomnia. Yet, whenever they need me, I rush around—to hospitals for injections, babysitting round the clock. But when I say it’s too much for me—they look at me like I’m a traitor.
Recently, it hit a boiling point. I got up early, cleaned the kitchen, prepared porridge for my grandson, as usual. Emily woke up and snapped, “Why isn’t it the jarred porridge? Didn’t I tell you?” I lost it. Told her I’m a grandmother, not a kitchen robot. They should support their own family. She burst into tears, Martin defended her, door slammed, and they left. An hour later, they returned like nothing happened—no apologies.
Each day I wake up questioning why I let them in. Why didn’t I stick to my guns at the start? Because I’m a mother. I love my son. But now, I often find myself thinking—I love him, but I’m exhausted. And when I sit down with my blood pressure pills, I wonder—should I kick them out? It might be hard, but at least I’d keep my sanity.
Tell me, am I the only one this naive? Or do others my age fall into this trap too?
