“I gave up my only home, and my wife made my life a living hell”—how I saw her true face after the wedding.
I was never a wealthy man, never wore designer clothes or drove fancy cars. I grew up in an ordinary working-class family in Manchester. My father passed when I was still a boy, and from that moment on, my mother carried us both on her shoulders. By day, she sold goods at the market; by night, she scrubbed floors at the nearest supermarket. Every penny went toward food, bills, and—most of all—my education. She dreamed I’d have a different life. Brighter. Calmer. Successful.
In my second year at university, I fell in love. Hopelessly. Recklessly. Her name was Amelia. A beauty, the fairest in the whole department—tall, radiant, with a voice so confident it made men weak at the knees. She’d even won the title of “Campus Queen” that year.
I never imagined she’d so much as glance my way. But one day, during an economics exam, she sat beside me. Didn’t know an answer, asked for help. I obliged. Then again. And again. And so it began. I helped with essays, coursework, scribbled notes for her. Then she invited me to the cinema—said she wanted to thank me. I couldn’t believe my luck.
A year later, I proposed. Amelia said yes. And I was certain this was the pinnacle of my happiness. We thought the future was ours. But the warnings had already begun. Her parents regarded me coldly, told me outright their daughter could’ve chosen someone “better off.” I stayed quiet. Love isn’t about money, is it?
After the wedding, we had no place of our own. So my mother—my poor, selfless mother—offered us the flat she’d inherited from a distant cousin. She moved back to her childhood village, to the cramped old house where she’d grown up. “I’m nearing sixty,” she said. “I’ll find peace there. You two start your life here.”
Amelia wasn’t thrilled with the flat, but she agreed. Her parents gifted her a brand-new car for the wedding—a present just for her, something she never let me forget. When I once asked her to drive me to visit Mum—just twenty miles—she snapped:
“What am I, your chauffeur? Take the train if you must. I’m not trekking out to your backwater.”
From then on, I went alone. Every week, without fail. Took groceries, medicines, helped with chores. Mum never asked. But I knew she struggled. Her pension barely covered a thing.
Meanwhile, Amelia denied herself nothing. Shopping sprees? Gladly. Nights out with friends? Always. But if I suggested visiting my cousin or Mum’s old friend for her birthday? Hysterics. If I pressed, I slept on the floor, on a thin mattress. No words. No explanations.
Slowly, she began accusing me of “spending too much on your mother.”
“Did you marry me or your mum? Stop funneling money to her! She’s old—let her sit quietly!” she spat one evening over supper.
I stared at her, unrecognizing. Where was the warm, lively girl I’d taken to the pictures, the one who’d laughed over coffee between lectures? In her place stood a cold, calculating woman, measuring everything in profit and loss.
When I explained that Mum was ill, that she needed medicine, that she couldn’t manage without me—Amelia stood and said:
“Choose. Her or me. Walk away, and I won’t look back.”
I said nothing. Slept not a wink that night. Come morning, I delivered Mum’s groceries, sat on a bench near her house, and wept for the first time in my life. That day, I made my decision. I wouldn’t choose between my wife and my mother. Because if a woman forces a man to make that choice—she’s already lost.
I filed for divorce without a scene. Just packed my things and left—back to the flat Mum had given us “for luck.” Amelia retreated to her parents. The car, the friends, the clubs—all still hers.
And me? I have my mother again. Warmth. Peace. No regrets. For too long, I turned a blind eye. Stayed silent. Now? Not a single wasted minute with someone who scorns love for family.
Sometimes you must lose to find what truly matters.
