“I Just Don’t Know What to Do”: My Son Wants to Marry Young and Move Back Home

Living in a cramped two-bedroom apartment in the outskirts of a bustling city, I, Lillian, have always done my best to provide for my sons, Arthur and Gerald. Life hasn’t been easy since their father left us for another life across the country, but with some help from my aging parents, we’ve managed to keep our heads above water.

Arthur, the elder of the two at 22, was still in college studying to become an engineer. Gerald, three years his junior, was trying to find his path, dabbling in various trades and part-time jobs. Our life, though filled with challenges, had settled into a manageable routine. That was until last month when Arthur dropped a bombshell—he was getting married to his college sweetheart, Ruby.

Ruby was a kind girl, smart and considerate, but they were both so young and financially unstable. The news of their engagement was surprising enough, but what followed was even more so. Arthur wanted to bring Ruby to live with us in our tiny apartment. He argued that they could save money for their future while he finished his degree.

I remember sitting at our worn-out kitchen table, the noise from the busy street filtering in as I tried to process his words. The thought of another person in our already cramped space was overwhelming. “Arthur, are you sure about this? It’s not just about space; it’s about being able to support one more person,” I said, my voice a mixture of concern and disbelief.

Arthur, with all the conviction of youth, insisted that they had it all planned out. Ruby, who was also a student, worked part-time at a local bookstore, and together, they believed they could manage. Despite my reservations, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. After all, he was my son, and he seemed so genuinely happy.

The wedding was a small affair, and soon after, Ruby moved in with her suitcase and an array of dreams for the future. The apartment felt smaller almost immediately. Personal space became a concept of the past, and the bathroom schedule required diplomatic negotiation skills.

As weeks turned into months, the strain began to show. The utility bills climbed, and the grocery expenses seemed to double. My job at the local supermarket barely covered our necessities, and my parents, with their limited retirement funds, could only do so much. Arguments became a frequent occurrence, often about finances, sometimes about the sheer lack of space.

One evening, as I tried to find some solitude on the tiny balcony, I overheard Arthur and Ruby in a heated discussion. The weight of their decision had finally caught up with them. The stress of managing school, work, and a marriage was taking its toll. Ruby was crying, and Arthur sounded defeated. They were discussing moving out, not because they wanted to, but because they felt they had no other choice.

The next morning, they announced their decision to try and find a place of their own, despite the financial burden it would entail. The apartment felt silent that day, the air heavy with a mix of relief and sadness. I knew this was probably for the best, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling of failure.

As I lay in bed that night, the reality of the situation washed over me. My son was out there, trying to build his life in less than ideal circumstances, all because I couldn’t provide enough. The thought was suffocating, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find solace in the quiet of the night.