You’re Robbing My Son Blind—He Can’t Even Afford a Lightbulb
On Sunday morning, I was curled up under a blanket on the sofa. My husband had gone off to his mother’s to supposedly change a lightbulb, but that, of course, wasn’t the real reason she summoned her son:
“Son, did you forget that it’s Igor’s birthday today?”
My husband is a real spendthrift—his wages barely last a few days. Luckily, he hands over money for the bills and groceries, and the rest goes on new games and whatever else he wants for them. I don’t mind, because I’d rather he indulge his hobbies than spend his time drinking in a garage or clubbing. Plus, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are the hardest for anyone.
I’m not telling you this to get your sympathy, but to explain why my husband’s pockets are always empty. I don’t have those problems. I even manage to save a bit and often lend him money when he’s in a pinch. But I always refuse if he wants cash for his mother or other relatives.
Of course, I’d remembered it was Igor’s birthday, so I’d bought a present a week ago. Before he left, I handed my husband the gift and settled in to watch a film. I didn’t go with him, as my in-laws and I share a mutual dislike.
They seem to think I don’t love him because I refuse to let him spend money on them or babysit their kids. Once, I agreed to mind his sister’s children for an hour, but they left them with me for half the day, making me late for work. I had the nerve to say I wasn’t happy about it, so his mother and sister called me shameless and rude. After that, every request to babysit got a no from me. I didn’t mind if my husband wanted to look after his nephews, since I quite liked playing with them myself.
Not long after he left, my husband turned up again—with his whole family in tow, kids and all. His mother breezed right through the house, coat still on, and declared:
“We’ve decided that for Igor’s birthday, he should get a tablet—the one he picked. It’s worth £400. So you owe me £200 for your share. Pay up.”
Now, I might have bought the boy a tablet, just not such an expensive one.
Naturally, I didn’t give her a penny. Even my husband started having a go at me for being stingy. So I grabbed the laptop, called Igor over, and within five minutes we’d picked out a gadget he actually liked and bought it.
He ran off, thrilled, to his mum, who’d been sulking in the hallway. My husband’s sister always had sticky fingers, so I wouldn’t be surprised if something had gone missing. His mother didn’t appreciate my thoughtful gesture and instead flared up again.
“No one asked you to do that! You were supposed to give us the money. You’re with my son who’s always like a beggar—he can’t even afford a lightbulb. Now give me £200, you know it’s his money.”
She even reached for my handbag on the bedside table. I glared at my husband and hissed, “You have three minutes to get them out.”
He grabbed his mother and dragged her out of the house. Three minutes—that’s all it took.
That’s why, in my view, it’s better my husband spends his wages on games—before, his mother just took everything anyway. Better he enjoys himself than have those leeches snatch it all. Right now, I’m thinking I should have just married an orphan! I remember that old Sunday morning, wrapped in a knitted throw, stretched out on the settee.
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