“I gave her my only home, and she turned my life into hell”—how I saw her true colours after the wedding.
I was never wealthy—no designer clothes, no flashy cars. I grew up in an ordinary working-class family in Leeds. My dad passed when I was still a teenager, and from then on, my mum carried the weight of us both. By day, she worked at a market stall; by night, she cleaned a nearby supermarket. Every penny went towards food, bills, and, most importantly, my education. She dreamed I’d have a different life—brighter, quieter, more successful.
At university, I fell hopelessly, recklessly in love. Her name was Gemma—the most beautiful girl on campus, tall and radiant, with a confidence that made every lad weak at the knees. She’d even won the title of “Miss University” that year.
I never imagined she’d glance my way. But one day, during an economics exam, she sat beside me. Stuck on a question, she asked for help. I obliged. Then again. And again. Before I knew it, I was assisting with essays, coursework, even sneaking her notes. Then she invited me to the cinema—said she wanted to thank me. I couldn’t believe my luck.
A year later, I proposed. Gemma said yes, and I was certain it was the pinnacle of happiness. We thought the future was ours. But even then, the first warnings appeared. Her parents were frosty, bluntly stating she could’ve done better—someone wealthier. I bit my tongue. Love isn’t about money, right?
After the wedding, we had no home of our own. So my mum, my poor, selfless mum, offered us the flat she’d inherited from her cousin. She moved back to her childhood village, to a small, ageing house. “I’m nearly sixty,” she said. “I’ll be at peace there. You two start your life here.”
Gemma wasn’t thrilled about the flat, but she agreed. Her parents gifted her a brand-new car—a present just for her, as she never let me forget. When I once asked for a lift to visit Mum—just twenty miles away—she snapped, “What am I, your chauffeur? Take the train if you want. I’m not driving to the middle of nowhere.”
From then on, I went alone. Every week, without fail. I brought groceries, medicine, helped with chores. Mum never asked. But I knew she struggled—her pension barely covered anything.
Meanwhile, Gemma denied herself nothing. Shopping sprees? Of course. Nights out with friends? Always. But if I suggested visiting my uncle or Mum’s best friend’s birthday, she erupted. If I insisted, I’d sleep on the floor—no words, no explanation.
Soon, she accused me of “spending too much on your mother.”
“Did you marry me or your mum?” she spat one evening. “Stop throwing money at her! She’s old—let her sit quietly and not be a bother!”
I stared, scarcely recognising her. Where was the sweet, lively girl I’d shared coffees and cinema trips with? In her place stood a cold, calculating woman who saw everything as a transaction.
When I explained Mum was ill, needed medication, couldn’t manage without me—Gemma stood and declared, “Choose: me or her. Leave, and I won’t look back.”
I said nothing. That night, I didn’t sleep. The next morning, after dropping off groceries for Mum, I sat on a park bench and wept—for the first time in my life. That day, I made my choice. No man should ever have to choose between his wife and his mother. Because if a woman forces that decision, she’s already lost.
I filed for divorce. No drama, no scenes. Just packed my things and left—back to the flat Mum gave us “for happiness.” Gemma retreated to her parents. The car, the friends, the parties—all still hers.
And me? I have my mum again. Warmth. Peace. No regrets. I turned a blind eye too long, stayed silent too long. Now, not a single minute more with someone who resents love for family.
Sometimes, you must lose to find what truly matters.
