“My son is washing dishes… Is this supposed to be normal now?” — the anguished confession of a mother-in-law who can’t accept reality
“Hello, Emily dear. How are you?” came the voice of Margaret Andrews, my colleague, known for her fiery temper and undying devotion to her grown son.
“Everything’s fine,” I smiled. “The kids came over for the weekend with the grandchildren. Brought groceries, had a family lunch. My daughter-in-law is an absolute gem. Did the cleaning, even washed the curtains. My blood pressure’s been erratic—I’d never have managed alone.”
“Lucky you!” Margaret’s tone wasn’t just envy now—it was sharp irritation. “But me? I’ve got nothing but trouble. That viper my Simon ended up with isn’t a wife—she’s a nightmare! Sweet as pie at first, but now? Absolute horror!”
“But I thought you used to praise her. What happened?”
“Everything was fine before. But the moment Simon lost his job—that was it! Suddenly, everything’s his fault. She *nags* him to death. You know what she tells him? ‘Go work *anywhere*.’ Can you imagine? She’s sending a *lawyer* to deliver parcels! Two degrees, and she tells him to ‘go work security’!”
“And what does Simon say?”
“What *can* he say? He’s trying, looking. But proper jobs just aren’t out there now. He *can’t* toil for pennies! Was that why I slaved to put him through university? Gave everything so he could haul boxes around?”
I stayed silent. Because I knew—Margaret’s son, Simon, hadn’t worked in two years. And from the looks of it, he wasn’t exactly breaking his back. Oh, he was *looking*… but only at positions *he* deemed worthy. Meanwhile—home, in slippers. With a mother convinced her son wasn’t meant for *dishwashing*.
“Can you believe it,” Margaret raged, “she makes him *clean*! Wash plates! A *man* in an apron—I can’t even fathom it! And the food she serves! Porridge with water, broth without meat. My Simon loves roast dinners, pies, proper puddings. But her? Pasta and rice. He’s a *man*—he needs strength!”
“But where’s the money coming from?” I asked quietly.
“*Exactly*! That’s why *I* cook for him! Made a proper roast, baked a pie, even biscuits. I’ll take it over. He’s lost a stone living with her, skin and bones. That woman’s a *serpent*.”
I bit my tongue. Because all I could think was—here was a grown man, two years unemployed, leeching off his wife *and* mother, and still being pitied. Did no one see how hard this was for his wife? A child in the house, an empty fridge, a husband who won’t work—and *she’s* the villain for not serving restaurant meals or daring to ask for help?
I couldn’t hold back.
“Margaret… Aren’t you ashamed? Do you honestly think it’s right—a man refusing work for *years*, then sulking over *soup*?”
“Could *you* stand it if your husband dumped everything on you?”
“He’s *looking*…” she muttered, but the defiance was gone.
“Looking is one thing. Exploiting his wife’s patience is another. He’s not *ill*. He can wash a dish. Sweep a floor. Or do you think his wife—working, raising a child—should drag the entire household alone? Is *that* normal?”
“Well—” Margaret faltered.
“I’d have snapped, honestly. I respect your daughter-in-law. That she hasn’t kicked him out yet is a *miracle*. Lesser women would’ve slammed the door long ago.”
Margaret went quiet. And I felt it—the simmering fury. Because there are too many men like Simon. And far too many mothers like Margaret, excusing grown men’s laziness. And who pays? The exhausted wives, run ragged, then blamed. For *daring* to ask for help. For not cooking *steak*.
This story has one hero—the daughter-in-law. Holding everything together. No complaints. Just silent strength. And for that, she’s condemned.
So tell me—is a jobless man who won’t lift a finger *normal*? Or just parasitism disguised as ‘hard times’? Where’s the line between struggle and selfish comfort? And who’s really at fault—the worn-out wife, or the mother who never let her son grow up?