Why Did I Agree to Let My Son and Daughter-in-Law Move In with Me? I Still Don’t Know.

Why did I agree to let my son and his wife move in with me? I still dont know.

Im Vera Simmons, living in a two-bedroom flat in one of Londons quieter neighbourhoods. Sixty-three years old, a widow, my pension is modest but enough to get by. When my son Matthew married two years ago, like any mother, I was over the moon. Hes youngjust thirty-oneand his wife Emily is a bit younger. They tied the knot but had nowhere to live, no place of their own. “Mum,” they said, “well stay with you just for a little while. Well save up for a mortgage deposit and be out before you know it.”

Like a fool, I was delightedimagined Id be looking after grandchildren. So I let them move in. Now, I dont know how to dig myself out of this mess. That “little while” has stretched into two years, and none of us have any quality of life left.

At first, I kept my distance. Theyre young, newlyweds finding their feet. I didnt interferecooked for them, did their laundry, kept things tidy. Then Emily fell pregnant. So soon, I thought, but if its Gods will, there must be a reason. My grandson Oliver arrivedan absolute darling. Only, with him came the end of my savings. Everyone knows how expensive babies arenappies, formula, baby foodall costly, and Emily insists on top brands, everything fresh, everything imported.

I dont mind helping. But Im not their housemaid. Yet somehow, Ive become the nanny, the cook, and the cleaner all in one. The young mum is “exhausted.” Apparently, Oliver wont let her sleep. So she lounges in bed till noon, glued to her phone, while the babys in his playpen. Her on the sofa, telly blaring, lunch ready, floors mopped, grandson bathed. And Emily still complains shes “run ragged.”

And my Matthew? He trudges off to work, comes home silent, barely speaks. If I try to talk to him, he shuts me down. “Mum, dont interfere.” Meanwhile, Emily acts like she owns the place. I say one word, she snaps back with threealways loud, always rude. Then Matthew accuses me of “bullying” his wife. Bullying! After all Ive done for them!

I dont know what to do anymore. I tell Matthew, “Son, find a place to rent. Im worn out.” He just says, “We cant afford it, Mum.” I suggested downsizingId take a small studio, they could save for their own place, live like proper adults. Be responsible. Id help with Oliver when I could. But no. My son nods along, but nothing changes.

I get ittheyre young, lifes hard. But Im not made of steel. My blood pressures a mess, my joints ache, I cant sleep. Yet the moment they need mehospital runs, injections, babysittingI jump. And when I say Im tired, they look at me like Ive betrayed them.

A few days ago, we had a proper row. I woke early, cleaned the kitchen, made Olivers porridge, same as always. Emily waltzes in and says, “Why did you make this again? I told you I want the packet kind!” I lost it. Told her Im a grandmother, not a flipping microwave. That they ought to support themselves. She burst into tears, Matthew took her side, they stormed out. An hour later, they were back like nothing happened. Not even an apology.

Now, every morning, I lie there thinkingwhy did I ever let them stay? Why didnt I put my foot down sooner? Probably because Im his mother. Because I love him. And more and more, I catch myself thinkingI love him, but Im spent. And when I sit there with my blood pressure pills, I wondermaybe its time to kick them out? Itll hurt, but at least I wont lose my mind.

And tell meam I the only one this daft? Or are there other mums my age stuck in the same trap?