So, you know how people say family’s meant to be your rock? Yeah, well, mine turned out to be more like quicksand. My mother-in-law and sister-in-law didn’t just make life harder—they stole my kids’ chance at a better future. And my husband, Tom? He let them.
Back when Tom had a decent job, his “precious” mum and sister, Lucy, were always in his ear:
“Mum’s behind on the bills…”
“Tom, we’ve got nothing left for groceries…”
“Can’t even afford petrol for the car…”
“Lucy and I want to see that West End show—get us tickets!”
Off he’d trot, like some loyal spaniel, wallet out, grinning like an idiot. At first, I bit my tongue. Then I tried talking sense into him. Eventually? I gave up. Especially after maternity leave round two hit, and him? Laid off.
Instead of job hunting—even something temporary—Tom camped on the sofa, moaning about “injustice” and turning his nose up at anything “beneath him.” Meanwhile, I went back to work early, left the kids with him. A week in, the calls started—but to me, not him. His mum and Lucy had a new cash cow.
I snapped. Told them if they needed money, get jobs. The free ride was over. Of course, they ran to Tom. And instead of backing me, he let them move in.
Yep. Came home from work one day—suitcases in the hall. They’d rented out their flat “for income,” his mum declared. Now they were our problem. Three extra mouths on my salary. My say? Didn’t matter.
I walk in, still in my boots, and his mum goes, “Oh, you’re back. Where’s dinner?”
Tom takes my coat, all calm: “Love, don’t start. Mum and Lucy are in a tight spot. It’s temporary.”
Temporary. The kitchen was a disaster. Kids smeared in chocolate, dirty pans everywhere. My one-year-old’s hands sticky—no one bothered to clean him. I saw red.
Suddenly, the freeloaders had chores. Mum-in-law peeled potatoes; Lucy washed up. Live with me? Pull your weight.
Months passed. No signs of leaving. Their rental cash vanished in weeks, then came the begging. Say no? Cue the tantrums. Our home became a warzone.
My birthday rolled around. Lucy couldn’t muster a “happy birthday.” His mum mumbled something. We fled to my parents’ place. There, I got hugs, Mum’s knitted jumper, and… a scratch card.
Used to love these as a kid. Sat with my daughter, scratched off the numbers—and bam. We won. A proper jackpot! Enough for private school, nursery fees. I stayed up dreaming of fresh starts.
Next morning? Silence. Their room—empty. Tom’s documents gone. The ticket? Stolen.
Took years to rebuild. Just me and the girls now. Heard Tom blew his share on holidays and booze. His mum’s in rehab. Lucy’s kid’s got health struggles. Tom’s liver’s packing up.
But us? We’re warm. Loved. Not broken.
Funny, really. They took the money. But not my worth. Or my love for my girls. Turns out, that’s worth more anyway.
