My husband’s parents are well-off, yet they refused to help with the deposit for our flat – a child doesn’t need grandparents like that.
My husband Daniel’s parents are wealthy. They live in a large house in central Manchester, own several cars, and frequently holiday abroad. Meanwhile, I grew up in a modest family from a small town near Leeds. When Daniel and I met and decided to marry, our different backgrounds didn’t matter. We were young, in love, and determined to build our life together without handouts. Though, naturally, we wouldn’t have turned down help if offered, says Emily.
Daniel and I had longed for our own place. We were tired of drifting between cramped rentals – peeling wallpaper, dripping taps, landlords always eyeing the calendar for our departure. His parents knew our struggles yet acted oblivious. They clearly had the means to assist, but willingness seemed absent.
My parents live far away in Yorkshire. Their income is modest, so I never relied on their support. Daniel’s parents were right there in the city, but after the wedding, we chose independence over moving in with them. We rented, worked ourselves ragged, skipped holidays to save for a home. His parents were aware but kept their distance.
One evening over dinner, my mother-in-law broached the inevitable: when would she become a grandmother? I seized the moment.
“We’ll consider children once we have our own flat. Right now, we can’t even afford the deposit.”
She offered a sympathetic nod, her gaze vacant, as if my words had evaporated.
Months later, I discovered I was pregnant. Life shifted instantly. When we shared the news, Daniel’s parents were overjoyed – cooing about babysitting, planning nursery visits. Summoning courage, I asked if they might contribute to the flat deposit. Surely a stable home mattered for their grandchild?
Her expression hardened. “Money’s tight,” she said curtly. A lie – just days prior, Daniel’s father had boasted about trading in their Range Rover. So a new car took priority over their son’s family?
I bit my tongue, but resentment simmered. Our dream of a proper home for our child was crumbling. Resigned to our shabby rental, we visited my parents with our news. After congratulations, Mum revealed their decision: they’d sell their Leeds flat to fund our deposit, then retire to her childhood village.
I protested, but they insisted. Within weeks, the sale went through, giving us enough for a cosy two-bed in Manchester’s suburbs. Now we had our nest, our future secure.
Yet Daniel’s parents’ actions still sting. They prioritised a car over their grandchild’s security. Not once during my pregnancy did they check on us. Their comfortable, carefree lives seem untouched by our existence.
Increasingly, I believe our baby deserves better grandparents. These people chose possessions over family. When our child arrives, they’ll be surrounded by genuine love – not from those who value a flashy motor over their own flesh and blood.
