Our son is 28 years old, and he still lives with us. We don’t know what to do.
Every year, the situation weighs on us more. Jack is nearly thirty, yet he remains under our roof. This isn’t temporary—it’s his way of life. He flatly refuses to leave. My husband and I feel less like parents to a grown man and more like hostages.
Jack was always quiet and withdrawn, even as a child. He never played outside with other kids or ran with boisterous groups. His childhood was spent alone—just him, his screwdrivers, wires, and the old gadgets he took apart down to the last screw. He was obsessed with electronics. Back then, we were pleased: our son was safe at home, learning, with serious hobbies. No troublemaking, no wandering the streets. What more could we want?
But we didn’t realize then that behind his quiet demeanour lay something worrying—a complete lack of interest in socializing. We tried enrolling him in clubs, sending him to sports—Jack refused. He didn’t want to go anywhere or meet anyone.
A bright spot came when he befriended Liam, a boy his age whose family moved into our building. They shared a love for tinkering, fixing things, and experimenting. They even went to college together, and after graduating, opened a small electronics repair shop.
My husband and I dreamed that now, with Jack on his feet, he’d find a wife and start a family. But he avoided relationships altogether. I even tried matchmaking, introducing him to friends’ daughters. Nothing worked.
Then one day, Emily walked into the shop with a broken kettle. Jack later admitted his heart stopped the moment he saw her. For the first time, without prompting, he asked for her number. They dated, and six months later, they married. We couldn’t believe our luck.
But the happiness didn’t last. The marriage ended after just two years. Why? We never fully understood. Jack wouldn’t talk about it. He just packed his things and came home—broken, silent, empty.
At first, he just lay on the sofa for days. Then he started blasting music so loud the walls shook. Next came the drinking. Our lives became a nightmare. We lived like we were sitting on a powder keg—Jack did nothing, listened to no one, never left the house. He refused to look for work or even discuss living on his own. We didn’t know how to talk to him, and with each passing day, he felt more like a stranger.
Liam saved him. The only person Jack still listened to. He dragged him out of that darkness, convinced him to return to the shop. At first, Jack resisted, but slowly, he went back—starting with a few hours a day, then staying longer, then taking work home. After a few months, he was absorbed in it again.
Two years have passed. Our son is working once more. He leaves the house more often, takes an interest in life, even talks to girls now. He’s changed. Yes, he still lives with us—but we don’t push, don’t interfere, don’t say, “Hurry up and marry, give us grandchildren.” We’ve learned: the harder we press, the further he pulls away.
Now we’re just here. Waiting. Believing. And maybe, just maybe, this quiet patience will one day help him find true happiness.