“My son is doing the dishes… Is this the new normal?” — A mother-in-law’s confession who can’t accept reality
“Hello, Emily dear. How are you getting on?” I heard the voice of Margaret, my colleague, known for her sharp temper and endless devotion to her grown-up son.
“Everything’s fine,” I smiled. “The kids came over for the weekend with the grandchildren. Brought groceries, made a family dinner. And my daughter-in-law is an absolute gem. Did the cleaning, washed the curtains. My blood pressure’s been awful—I couldn’t have managed alone.”
“Lucky you!” Margaret’s tone wasn’t just envious—it was downright irritated. “Well, I’m in a right mess. My William got himself a right piece of work, not a wife. Played the sweetheart at first, but now… she’s a nightmare!”
“But you used to praise her before. What happened?”
“It was fine before. But ever since William lost his job—everything’s gone to pot! She blames him for everything. You know what she tells him? To go work ‘anywhere, just do something.’ Can you believe it? She’s pushing a man with two degrees to be a courier! He’s not some delivery boy—she even said he should ‘try security’!”
“And what does William do?”
“What can he do? He’s trying, looking. But there aren’t any decent jobs right now. He’s not going to slave away for pennies! Did I raise him, scrape by to put him through university, just so he could haul boxes around?”
I stayed quiet. Because I knew—Margaret’s son, William, had been out of work for two years. And by all accounts, he wasn’t exactly breaking his back. Oh, sure, he was looking… but only at jobs he deemed ‘worthy.’ Meanwhile, he lounged at home in slippers. With a mother who genuinely believed her son was above scrubbing a plate.
“Can you imagine,” Margaret went on, “she makes him clean! Do the washing up! A man in an apron—it’s just wrong! And the way she feeds him! Oatmeal with water, soup without meat. My William loves proper meals—pies, roast dinners, apple crumble. And she serves him pasta and plain rice. He’s a grown man, he needs proper food!”
“But where’s the money coming from?” I asked quietly.
“Exactly! That’s why I cook for him. Just made him a stew, baked a pie, rolls too. Taking it over later. He’s lost half a stone with her—nothing but skin and bones. She’s a right serpent, that one.”
I said nothing. Because all I could think was: a healthy grown man, two years without work, living off his wife and mum—and still being coddled. Does no one see how hard this woman, his wife, has it? A child in the house, an empty fridge, an idle husband—and she’s the villain for not serving gourmet meals and daring to ask him to wash a dish.
I couldn’t hold back.
“Margaret… Don’t you feel ashamed? Really, do you think it’s right for a man to sit around jobless for two years and then complain his soup isn’t fancy enough?”
“Would you put up with it if your husband dumped everything on you?”
“He’s looking…” she muttered, but her voice wavered.
“Looking is one thing. Taking his wife for granted is another. He’s not ill. He can wash a dish or sweep a floor. Or do you think it’s normal for his wife—after work, with a toddler to look after—to carry the entire household alone?”
“Well…” Margaret faltered.
“Honestly, I wouldn’t last a week. I respect your daughter-in-law. The fact she hasn’t tossed him out is a miracle. Other women would’ve slammed the door years ago.”
Margaret went quiet. And I felt anger bubbling up. Because men like William aren’t rare. And neither are mothers like Margaret, who turn a blind eye to their grown sons’ laziness. And then these same women—exhausted, worn out—end up the villains for ‘skimping on dinners’ and ‘daring to ask for help.’
In this story, there’s only one hero—the daughter-in-law. She holds it together. Bears the weight alone. Doesn’t complain. Just gets on with it. And for that, she’s painted as the bad guy.
What do you think? Is it normal for a man to sit jobless and refuse to lift a finger at home? Or is the ‘crisis’ just a convenient excuse for freeloading? Where’s the line between tough times and comfortable dependency? And who’s really at fault—the wife, pushed to her limit, or the mother who never let her son grow up?
