Hey Reddit,

I have a serious moral dilemma.

This has been on my mind for weeks now. I even dream about it sometimes. I need to get this off my chest and hopefully hear some outside opinions. Apologies for the “sob story,” but I need to write this out.

I’m in my early 30s, I have a wife, a five-year-old child, and another baby on the way.

I had, in my opinion, a very sad childhood. I have an older brother who—objectively speaking—turned out pretty badly. He got into gambling during high school, dropped out, and has since cycled through debt, insolvency, and prison.

My parents were deeply financially illiterate. Neither finished high school, and they were in debt most of my life. Part of it wasn’t their fault, but their lack of basic financial skills made everything worse. We barely saw extended family. Once or twice a year we’d visit my paternal grandparents—often just so my parents could beg for money. Sometimes, there was literally no money for rent or food. After my grandparents passed, contact with the rest of the family vanished completely.

By the time I was ten, I understood what a debt spiral was. We lived in a 1-bedroom municipal apartment with low rent and a permanent lease. I never had my own room. I didn’t know what a vacation with parents was, or what summer camp or skiing meant. Everything cost money—money we never had. My mom would occasionally pawn things just so we could eat.

My worst memories are from the beginning of each school year, when the teacher would ask us what we did over the summer. I always just listened to the others and then had to say, “Nowhere. Again.”

Emotionally, things weren’t much better. My parents let me grow up like a weed. They didn’t care how I was doing or how school was going. I don’t remember ever hearing them say they loved me, or ever trying to motivate or support me. I had food, second-hand clothes, but I always felt like a burden. I believed that if they didn’t have to spend money on me, they’d have fewer problems. From around the age of ten, I seriously thought about suicide almost every day.

I barely made it through high school. My grades dropped from A’s and B’s to C’s and D’s—my parents didn’t care. I think they came to a parent-teacher meeting maybe twice. I started working part-time jobs when I was 15 to buy myself better clothes, go out with friends, maybe get a computer.

I graduated, but didn’t go to college. My parents didn’t care, and I couldn’t imagine living in that cramped apartment for another 3–5 years. They had this weird disdain for educated people, always ranting about how the neighbors “only have more money because they went to school.”

After graduating, I went to work in a factory, took out a loan to pay rent and moved out. Then I took another loan to go on vacation, and another for a better PC. It spiraled out of control, and after six months I had to move back in—with my debts—into that tiny apartment. I was truly my parents’ son.

When I was 24, my now-wife “adopted” me, in a way. We’ve been together for almost ten years, and life is good. Sure, I can’t afford a Prague studio apartment, but we can pay rent, afford food, and even managed to take a family vacation to the seaside.

And now to the core of the issue:

My dad worked at the same company as my wife. She used to date their mutual supervisor, and the breakup was ugly, he cheated. Not long after, she and I started dating. My dad didn’t like it. He said she was just using me for money, needed someone to pay her rent. They didn’t like her. There were constant arguments. He also gossiped about her at work, and my mom blindly believed everything he said.

Six months into the relationship, I moved in with her. I kept seeing my parents about every two weeks for lunch—usually alone. My wife knew they didn’t like her and avoided going, which I never blamed her for. I had to call home every week, and if I didn’t, all hell would break loose. They never accepted her. They didn’t even come to our wedding.

When our child was born, suddenly they started showing interest. I had to call more, visit more, send pictures. Maybe they started to tolerate my wife. But it was always one-sided—we kept going to them, they came to us maybe once a year. I was always the one who had to initiate contact.

I repeatedly told them not to overdo it with gifts for the kid. Yet after every visit, I left with a bag full of plush toys, chocolate, building blocks... and bananas (WTF?). We argued about it many times. They wouldn’t respect my wishes. After three years, we had an army of plushies at home, even though I kept asking them to only give gifts for birthdays, name days, and Christmas. Around Christmas 2023, I finally said enough—told them to take the stuff back. My mom got offended and said, “If I have to go back home with gifts, I just won’t come anymore.” We argued, and she left.

Since then, we’ve only exchanged the occasional holiday or birthday text. Last Christmas, not even that.

And now… we’re expecting our second child. My parents don’t know. They haven’t seen our firstborn in over a year and a half.

What should I do?

Should I tell them?

Should I make an effort so my kids know both sets of grandparents?

Should I be the one to try, so that my parents get to see their only grandkids?