I’m caught between a rock and a hard place: my mum needs help, but my husband flat-out refuses.
My name is Emily, I’m twenty-nine. I’ve been married to James for six years, and we have a wonderful four-year-old daughter, Lily. We live the typical life of a young family—both working, paying off the mortgage, budgeting, and trying to keep everything balanced. Recently, I’ve switched to remote work, which gives me more time with Lily, and my mum’s been a huge help with that.
She absolutely adores her granddaughter. She spoils her rotten, takes her to her cottage, plays with her, teaches her things. It’s been a blessing for us. Lily loves staying with her nan—it’s like a holiday for her. There’s a swing set, a garden, a sandpit. But as with any help, there’s always another side to it.
Mum’s full of energy. Retired but never idle, always coming up with new projects. This year, for instance, she decided to build a summerhouse in the garden. Without even discussing it with us, she ordered all the materials and then simply dropped it on me:
“Em, tell James to come over and help unload everything. I can’t manage it alone.”
I nodded quietly, though I already knew what his answer would be. It hasn’t changed in the last two years:
“That’s your mum’s place, Emily. Let her sort it out. I’m not going. I’ve got one life and one day off a week, and I spend it on the sofa—not lifting a finger for anyone. End of.”
I get where he’s coming from. He works long hours, sometimes even on weekends, finishing urgent jobs. Money’s tight—mortgage payments, a growing child. But then again… it’s my mum. She’s helped us countless times. She takes Lily every week. She never asks for anything, never interferes. And now, one small favour—unloading timber for a summerhouse—and James just says no.
In the end, the materials arrived on Friday morning. Mum called in a panic—she had no one to help. I dropped everything, buckled Lily into the car, and went. The two of us unloaded everything—planks, cement, beams. I won’t even mention how backbreaking it was. Mum could barely straighten up afterward. But what hurt her most was that her son-in-law couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger.
“Emily, is he a man or what? How is this acceptable? I’m not asking him to rebuild the roof—just to help for a couple of hours!” she fumed, dusting off her hands.
I just stood there, silent. I felt ashamed. Ashamed in front of Mum. Ashamed of myself. Ashamed for Lily, watching everything unfold, confused as to why Nan was angry and Mummy was upset.
When I got home, the house was ice-cold with silence. I tried talking, explaining that it wasn’t some whim—it was a simple request from a mum who’s always there for us. But James just waved me off:
“Do you ever actually listen to me? I’m carrying everything on my back! I don’t owe her help. Her cottage, her project, her problem!”
I don’t know what to do now. I’m truly stuck in the middle. On one side, there’s Mum—always there, always helping, always caring. On the other, James—exhausted, frustrated, convinced he doesn’t owe anyone anything. And it’s tearing me apart because, in their own ways, they’re both right.
I love James. And I’m grateful to Mum. But I don’t understand why my family has become a battleground for them. Why do I always have to justify myself? Why does a simple request for help turn into a row that echoes for days?
I’m tired. Tired of being the peacemaker. Tired of mediating, explaining, pleading. I want Mum to feel appreciated and respected, and James to realise that sometimes helping isn’t an obligation—it’s basic decency toward the woman who’s always stood by him.
Sometimes I wonder—should I be firmer? Or gentler? Or just keep my mouth shut and do everything myself? I don’t know.
But I do know this—I don’t want Lily to ever end up in a situation like this. I want her to grow up surrounded by love, understanding, and respect. I don’t want wars between her husband and her nan.
How to make that happen, though… that’s the puzzle I can’t solve.
