My husband’s 19-year-old daughter has been living with us, and even though she’s an adult, she refuses to move out. Since she wasn’t contributing to the household, I insisted she at least help by watching our 2-year-old son while my husband and I work full-time. Her response? “I’m not your babysitter—I have a life!” My husband didn’t say a word.
The next day, I came home and immediately went to check on my son. What I found stopped me cold: his diaper was soaked, his face blotchy from crying, and there wasn’t a single adult in sight. The TV was blasting a trashy reality show, and the living room was a mess of snack wrappers. I called out for Nora, but she didn’t respond.
When I went upstairs, I found her in her room, laughing on a video call. She looked up, clearly annoyed, and rolled her eyes like I was overreacting. I asked, as calmly as I could, “Did you check on the baby?” She shrugged and said, “I heard him, but I was busy. Babies cry.”
I was shaking. I picked up my son, changed him, held him close, and silently promised I would never let this happen again.
Later that night, I told my husband everything. He looked drained and muttered, “She’s still just a kid.” But I could tell—he knew this couldn’t go on.
Weeks passed, and nothing improved. Nora refused to help, stomped around slamming doors, and constantly complained about how unfair her life was. She left her mess everywhere—dirty dishes, trash, clothes—and expected me to clean up after her. If I ever asked for help, she’d scream that I wasn’t her mother and had no authority over her.
My husband kept insisting he’d talk to her, but every attempt ended with Nora crying or yelling until he gave up.
Then came the night everything changed. I got home late one Friday, stuck in traffic. As soon as I walked in, I heard loud music thumping from the kitchen. I stepped inside to find a full-blown party—Nora and a bunch of strangers dancing, drinking, and trashing the place. Beer bottles littered the counter, the sink overflowed with dishes, and the floor was sticky from a spilled drink.
And there, in the middle of the chaos, was my baby—asleep on the couch, surrounded by noise and cigarette smoke wafting in through the open back door.
I scooped him up and rushed upstairs, heart pounding with anger. I texted my husband: “COME HOME NOW.”
When he walked in and saw the mess, he was visibly shaken. He froze when one of the guys staggered down the hallway with a beer in hand. That was his breaking point. He told everyone to get out—his voice shaking with fury.
Once the house cleared, he sat Nora down to talk. But instead of listening, she…