The fridge is always full. Baskets of folded laundry appear outside our bedrooms. The milk and newspapers are delivered daily. My two children have their shoes lovingly polished before school. And, best of all, the childcare is free and on tap.
Moving back in with my parents earlier this year, at the age of 48, was never part of my master plan but, as I’ve learned, not everything in life goes to schedule.
As a family, we have had a difficult couple of years.
My world fell apart in the most spectacular fashion in 2023 when I was diagnosed with cancer. Then, in a bizarre and shocking twist of fate, both my parents were diagnosed with the disease and my 18-year marriage fell apart.
The separation forced us to sell our beautiful family home and so, at the start of this year, I found myself packing up the remnants of my old life, surrounded by moving boxes. I felt utterly deflated, even more so because I couldn’t find myself and my children a suitable new home – so we had nowhere to go. When my parents suggested I move in with them, I was grateful but sceptical. As a family, we’ve always been close, but heading back home with my daughter Matilda, 12, and son George, seven, was a big step.
What if moving in meant the end of a happy, harmonious relationship with my parents? And where would we put all our stuff?
‘It won’t be for long,’ Mum insisted. ‘There’s plenty of space, and it will be good for you and the children. Please. Let us help you.’
I knew she and my father wanted to do everything they could to support me because, two years ago, they feared they might lose me. On February 14, 2023, we received the call that turned our worlds upside down. Following a scan, taken as a precaution because I had been suffering from heart palpitations and indigestion, I was told I had cholangiocarcinoma, a rare form of liver cancer.
Within ten days of my diagnosis, I was admitted to the Royal Free Hospital in north London for an 11-hour procedure during which my surgeon Dr Dora Pissanou removed half my liver.
It’s hard to describe how shocking the whole experience was – the fear and total loss of control I felt.
I knew it was very serious. I would have to fight for my life and the chance to see my two young children grow up.

Katie Nicholl moved back in with her parents. But she’s not alone – one in four London families now has an adult child living in their home
After two weeks in hospital, I was discharged and started a six-month course of preventative chemotherapy. At the time, I decided not to tell Matilda and George I had been diagnosed with cancer. Cholangiocarcinoma is incredibly aggressive, and the only potential cure is surgery. I didn’t want to frighten them and, besides, it was too much for them to absorb. I was still trying to process it all myself.
Fortunately, I responded well to the chemo without too many side-effects and was fit enough to get back to doing the school run and working again in a matter of months.
I commentated on King Charles’ Coronation for the US network NBC just ten weeks after my operation.
Then, just when I thought the worst was behind me and life was slowly returning to ‘normal’, my 74-year-old father was diagnosed with prostate cancer in June that year. He underwent a gruelling course of radiotherapy which completely wiped him out.
As 2023 ended and we were still trying to come to terms with it all, my mother, the matriarch and linchpin of our family, was diagnosed with secondary breast cancer.
She had been clear of breast cancer for 14 years, and, as a personal trainer, was fit as a fiddle.
She had only gone for a scan to make sure she was OK after mine and my father’s diagnoses. Shockingly, a tumour showed up in her chest wall.
Hearing the nurse tell my mother ‘I’m sorry, it’s cancer’ felt unreal. We were going down like soldiers.
It took all of our strength to rally together, but somehow we did.
Though still reeling, in February 2024 my marriage – which had been hanging by a thread before my illness – collapsed. I was at breaking point and I remember sobbing on the kitchen floor, pleading with the universe to stop raining down on me.
Yes, I had survived cancer, and for that I was eternally grateful, but my life was disintegrating around me.
So when Mum and Dad suggested moving in with them, there was more to it than just saving money on rent. It was a chance for us to spend some quality time together after a terribly tough period.
By this point, my dad’s prostate cancer had miraculously melted away while my mother’s secondary breast cancer was not the death sentence we had feared. It was treatable, though incurable.
Still, as much as I knew my parents wanted to help me, this was also a chance for me to keep an eye on them.
I also knew my children would bring some much-needed fun into their lives and give them a renewed sense of purpose.
My parents have a large five-bedroom house in north London and have been rattling around in it ever since my two younger brothers and I moved out years ago.
We’ve tried to convince them to downsize, but they love the house and garden.
When I asked my friends what they’d do in my situation, they all insisted they would jump at the chance to move back home.
And it turns out I’m not alone in boomeranging back to mum and dad: it’s increasingly commonplace among 30 and forty-somethings. Indeed, one in four London families now has an adult child living in their home.

Matilda and George, Katie writes, were thrilled to be moving in with their grandparents. There’s a small plaque in the hallway that says: ‘What goes on at Nanny and Grandpa’s stays at Nanny and Grandpa’s!’
There are various reasons for this shift, predominantly the rising cost of living, but divorcees also make up a share of the percentage, according to research.
Matilda and George were thrilled to be moving in with their grandparents. There’s a small plaque in the hallway that says: ‘What goes on at Nanny and Grandpa’s stays at Nanny and Grandpa’s!’
Growing up, they’ve enjoyed regular sleepovers with my parents – learning to play rummy and enjoying illicit midnight feasts.
When I agreed to move back home, Mum and Dad were delighted. They joked about how much the food shopping bill would increase, but they were excited.
They allowed the children to paint their rooms – fluorescent pink for Matilda and the blue and white colours of Manchester City for George. My dad even allowed them to stick posters on to the wall – something my brothers and I were banned from doing in case we spoiled the paintwork.
Knowing this was as much an upheaval for my children as it was for me, they went to every effort to make the house feel as much ours as it was theirs.
They allowed me to set up a small study and shoot location for my TV work in their dining room and we survived the first weeks without any major arguments . . . although my mother did lose her cool when I went through her fridge chucking out jars well past their expiry date, which she insisted were ‘absolutely fine’.
It felt odd sleeping in my old room – walking past the family photographs that line the walls and tell the story of my past – but it was also deeply reassuring.
I stopped setting my morning alarm; my dad became our wake-up call, cheerfully wishing us all a very loud good morning just like he used to when I was a teenager.
We’ve got our chaotic mornings down to a fine art. Dad makes tea and polishes the children’s school shoes while I make their breakfast and packed lunches.
Matilda looks after Bella, our Burmese cat who has also moved in, while George sets the table. Mum’s already at the local gym where I join her once I’ve done the school run so we can workout together.
The hour-long car journey is a change from our previous walk to school, but the children and I enjoy this chance to catch up.
As I work from home, I get to see what my parents do during the day. My mother, 76, doesn’t stop from the moment she gets up until she goes to bed and I am continually astonished by her energy.
She still works as a fitness instructor and lives a busy active life, seeing friends, keeping the house beautiful and looking after all of us.
Her medication makes her tired so she takes a nap each day, and, like me, she meditates to calm her nervous system.
My father’s in charge of the food shopping and, as I help him unpack the bags, I’m struck by how much ice cream and gin he consumes each week.
He is certainly more sedentary than my mother, and once he’s done his morning walk or swim, he spends most of his time reading or watching sport.
He complains constantly at the endless ring of the doorbell (Amazon deliveries, couriers or a film crew turning up), but I assure him getting up and down all the time will keep him fit, which is usually met by a dismissive grunt. His afternoon kip is now rudely interrupted when the children arrive home from school and the chaos starts all over again. I’m grateful when he puts down his book to help Matilda with her homework or test George on his spellings and times tables.
He also thoughtfully bought a badminton set for the summer and both my children are now pros at Sudoku.
They also know how to set a dinner table and have excellent table manners – something I battled with for years, but which they have quickly mastered while living with my parents. While I eat an early supper with the children so that we can catch up on the day, my parents eat later – something they’ve always done and a ritual I was keen not to disturb.
Knowing they are downstairs while I work in the evenings reminds me of when I lived at home as a student. I’d been rattling around in a huge house for more than a year after my ex-husband moved out, and to be in a busy, happy home cushioned us as we adjusted to this new stage of our lives.
Not having the pressure of running a home has also been a blessing for me as I try to minimise stress in my life.
‘We never realised just how much you do,’ my father told me one evening as we sat on the sofa together. ‘You never stop. You know you can stay as long as you like.’
His tenderness was deeply touching, and it struck me that living together was bringing us closer, affording us some much-needed togetherness after so much trauma.
It’s been magical for my parents to spend so much time with their grandchildren. They have the time for the kids that I don’t always have as a working mum. School projects which I dread are now fun because my mum gets involved. The smell of baking often fills the house and I can always hear laughter while I’m working upstairs.
I catch my father calling my daughter ‘Katie’ all the time and observe how he has a special way with her.
Matilda is about to turn 13, and while she and I lock heads during heated rows, my father always manages to calm her down.
Matilda and George joke about how ‘grumpy Grandpa’ has mellowed – and he has.
A few weeks ago, I was rushing back home for a meeting and didn’t brake in time on the driveway, crashing straight into the garage.
His pride and joy, and home over the years to his collection of vintage cars, I’d now taken the door clean off its hinges.
Hearing the crash, he ran out on to the drive white as a sheet.
I braced myself for all hell to break loose, but he was just relieved I wasn’t hurt.
My parents have also been keen for me to get my life back on track and happily babysit so I can go out (when they’re not out socialising, which is quite often as it happens!).
I have the opportunity to see my friends and the new man in my life. Jamie and I have been together for a year now and he has brought so much joy into my life.
Despite being 48, I still feel like a teenager when I head out for a date night, telling my parents not to wait up for me.
Today I live my life very differently. I don’t take a day for granted and I am so grateful to have all the people I love around me.
We are all in remission – and in good health – now, but we live with the impact of a cancer diagnosis and the different sense of perspective it brings.
We’ve had some very tough, honest and open conversations over the past two years and I know how proud my parents are of me for the advocacy work I am doing for the AMMF cholangiocarcinoma charity and Maggie’s, the cancer support charity.
‘It’s been wonderful having them here,’ I overheard Mum telling her sister on the phone recently. ‘I don’t think they’ll want to leave.’
I don’t really – but I know it’s time for me to embark on the next chapter of my life and I’m in the process of buying a house.
I suspect once we leave, and my parents feel that empty-nest syndrome all over again, they might decide it’s finally time for them to downsize.
You never know, they might end up moving in with us for a while.
I wouldn’t mind one bit.