Caught in the Middle: My Mother Needs Help, but My Husband Refuses
My name is Emily, and I am twenty-nine years old. For six years, I’ve been married to James, and together we have a wonderful daughter, Charlotte, who is four. We lead the life of a typical young family—both working, paying off the mortgage, budgeting carefully, and trying to keep up with everything. Since I began working from home recently, I’ve had more time with our child, and my mother has been a tremendous help.
Mum adores her granddaughter. She dotes on her, takes her to her cottage, goes on walks, and keeps her entertained. It’s an incredible support for us. Charlotte loves visiting her grandmother—it’s always a treat. There, she has a swing set, a garden, and a sandbox. But as with all help, there’s another side to it.
Mum is sharp-minded and restless. Though retired, she can’t sit idle. Always busy with one project or another. This year, for instance, she decided to build a summerhouse in her garden. Without consulting us, she ordered the materials and then simply announced it:
“Emily, tell James to come and help me unload everything. I can’t manage it alone.”
I nodded silently, though I knew exactly what his reaction would be. It hasn’t changed in the last two years:
“That’s your mother’s cottage, Emily. She can deal with it herself. I’m not going there. I have one life and one day off a week. I spend it on the sofa, and I don’t owe anyone my time. That’s final!”
I understand James. He works hard—sometimes even weekends at his laptop, finishing urgent projects. Money is tight. We have the mortgage, a growing child. But still—this is my mother. She’s helped us countless times. She takes Charlotte every week. She never demands anything, never meddles. And now, a simple request—just to unload some timber for the summerhouse. But James said no.
So the materials arrived on Friday morning. Mum called in a panic—there was no one to help. I dropped everything, buckled Charlotte into the car, and rushed over. Just the two of us, we unloaded all of it—planks, cement, some beams. I won’t describe how grueling it was. Mum could barely straighten her back afterward. But what stung most was that her son-in-law didn’t even try to help.
“Emily, what sort of man is he? Just a few hours of lifting! I wasn’t asking him to rebuild the roof!” she fumed, brushing dust from her hands.
I stood there, silent, ashamed. Ashamed before her. Ashamed before myself. Ashamed before Charlotte, who watched, confused, as her grandmother’s anger and my sadness clashed.
When I returned home, the air was thick with silence. I tried to explain—this wasn’t some whim, but a small favour for my mother, who’s always there for us. James only waved me off:
“Do you ever listen to me? I carry everything alone! I don’t owe her a thing! Her cottage, her project, her problem!”
I don’t know what to do. Truly, I’m caught in the middle. On one side—Mum, always there, always helping, caring deeply. On the other—James, exhausted and resentful, convinced he owes nothing. And it tears me apart because they’re both right in their own way.
I love James. And I’m grateful to my mother. But I don’t understand why my family must be their battleground. Why I must justify myself constantly. Why a simple favour can explode into a row that shakes us for days.
I’m tired. Tired of being the buffer. Tired of mediating, explaining, pleading. I want Mum to feel valued, and James to see that sometimes, helping isn’t an obligation—just basic respect towards the woman who’s always stood by us.
Sometimes I wonder—should I have been firmer? Or gentler? Or said nothing at all, quietly doing everything myself? I don’t know.
But I do know this—I don’t want Charlotte to ever find herself in this position. I want her to live with love, understanding, and respect. For there to be no wars between her husband and her grandmother.
Only—how to make that happen—that’s the puzzle I still haven’t solved.
