“Can you believe my son’s washing dishes now… Since when is this normal?” — a mother-in-law’s confession who just can’t accept reality.
“Hey, love, how’s things?” I heard the voice of Margaret, my colleague, who’s known for her fiery temper and endless devotion to her grown-up son.
“All good,” I smiled. “The kids came round at the weekend with the grandkids. Brought food, had a proper family dinner. My daughter-in-law’s an absolute gem—tidied up, even washed the curtains. My blood pressure’s been all over the place, I’d never have managed on my own.”
“You’re lucky!” Margaret’s tone wasn’t just envy anymore, it was full-on irritation. “Mine’s a nightmare. My poor William’s landed himself a right piece of work, not a wife. Played sweet at first, but now? She’s a terror!”
“I thought you used to praise her? What happened?”
“Wasn’t so bad before. But since Will lost his job, oh—it’s all his fault now. Nag, nag, nag. You know what she tells him? ‘Go get any job, I don’t care what.’ Can you imagine? She’s telling a bloke with two degrees to work as a courier! Or security! Honestly!”
“And what’s Will doing?”
“What can he do? He’s trying, looking. There’s just no decent jobs right now. He’s not gonna slave away for pennies! I didn’t put him through uni for that, did I? Worked my fingers to the bone so he could stack boxes?”
I stayed quiet. I knew full well that Margaret’s son, Will, hadn’t worked in two years. And didn’t seem in a rush to, either. Sure, he ‘looked’—but only at jobs he fancied. The rest of the time? Slippers on, lounging at home, with mum defending him like he’s royalty.
“And get this,” Margaret carried on, “she makes him clean! Do the dishes! A grown man in an apron—I mean, is this normal? And the way she feeds him! Porridge with water, soup with no meat. My William loves a proper roast, pies, apple crumble. But her? It’s all pasta and plain rice. He’s a bloke—he needs his strength!”
“Where’s the money coming from, though?” I asked quietly.
“Exactly! That’s why I cook for him! Made a stew today, baked a pie, even whipped up some scones. I’ll take it round. He’s lost half a stone with her, just skin and bone now. She’s a right snake, I tell you.”
I bit my tongue. All I could think was—a healthy grown man, two years without work, living off his wife and mum, and still getting coddled. Does no one see how hard this must be for his wife? A kid at home, an empty fridge, an unemployed husband—and she’s the villain for not cooking restaurant meals and asking him to wash a plate!
I couldn’t hold back.
“Margaret… don’t you feel ashamed? Seriously, do you *really* think it’s fine for a man to go years without work, then moan about him getting the wrong soup?”
“Would you put up with it if your husband dumped everything on you?”
“He *is* looking…” she muttered, but her voice had lost its bite.
“Looking’s one thing. Taking the mick’s another. He’s not ill. He can wash a dish or sweep a floor. Or do you think his wife—after a full day’s work, looking after the little one—should handle *all* the housework alone?”
“Well…” Margaret hesitated.
“Honestly? I couldn’t do it. I respect your daughter-in-law. That she hasn’t kicked him out yet is a miracle. Most women would’ve slammed the door ages ago.”
Margaret went quiet. And suddenly, I felt this anger bubbling up. Because there’s too many blokes like Will these days. And too many mums like Margaret, making excuses for their grown sons. Then those same women—exhausted, drained, at breaking point—end up being the villains. For ‘not cooking steak’ or ‘daring to ask for help with chores.’
In this story, there’s only one hero—the daughter-in-law. She’s holding it together. Carrying everything. Not moaning. Just getting on with it. And for *that*, she gets blamed.
So, what do you think? A man who doesn’t work *or* lift a finger at home—is that normal? Or just laziness wrapped up in excuses? Where’s the line between tough times and taking the piss? And who’s really at fault—the worn-out wife, or the mum who never let her son grow up?