I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place: my mum needs help, but my husband flat-out refuses.
My name’s Emily, I’m twenty-nine. I’ve been married to James for six years, and we’ve got a wonderful four-year-old daughter, Lily. We live the typical life of a young family—both working, paying off the mortgage, budgeting, trying to keep on top of everything. Since I started working remotely, I’ve had more time with Lily, and my mum’s been a massive help with that.
She absolutely dotes on her granddaughter. She loves having Lily over at her cottage, taking her out, playing with her. It’s been a real lifeline for us. Lily adores visiting her grandma—it’s like a little holiday for her. There’s a swing set, a garden, a sandpit. But, like all good things, there’s a downside.
Mum’s the energetic sort. Retired, but can’t sit still. Always coming up with projects. This year, for instance, she decided to build a shed in the garden. Without discussing it with us, she ordered the building supplies, then just dropped it on me like a bombshell:
“Emily, tell James he needs to come help unload everything. I can’t manage it on my own.”
I nodded quietly, even though I knew exactly what he’d say. His answer hasn’t changed in two years:
“That’s your mum’s place, Em. She can sort it out herself. I’m not driving over there to help. I’ve got one life and one day off a week, and I spend it on the sofa. I don’t owe anyone anything. End of.”
I get it—he works long hours, sometimes even weekends when there’s urgent jobs. Money’s tight. The mortgage, raising a child—it all adds up. But on the other hand, it’s my mum. She’s helped us so many times. She looks after Lily every week. She never demands anything, never interferes. And now, one simple request—just helping unload some timber—and he shuts her down.
So when the supplies arrived on Friday morning, Mum called in a panic. I dropped everything, strapped Lily into the car, and went over. The two of us unloaded everything—timber, cement, beams. I won’t even go into how heavy it was. Mum could hardly straighten up afterward. But what really got to her was that her son-in-law couldn’t even be bothered to lift a finger.
“Emily, what kind of man is he? Seriously! I’m not asking him to re-roof the place—just a couple of hours’ work!” she fumed, dusting off her hands.
I just stood there, silent. Ashamed in front of Mum. Ashamed in front of Lily, who didn’t understand why Granny was angry or why I looked so upset.
Back home, the atmosphere was frigid. I tried explaining—this wasn’t some silly whim, just Mum asking for a hand after all she’s done for us. But James just brushed me off.
“Do you even listen to me? I’m telling you, I’m done carrying everything! Her cottage, her project, her problem!”
I don’t know what to do. I’m truly torn. On one side—Mum, who’s always been there, helping, caring. On the other—James, exhausted, resentful, refusing to budge. And it breaks my heart because they’re both right in their own way.
I love James. And I’m so grateful to Mum. But I don’t understand why my family has become a battleground. Why I’m always stuck in the middle, mediating, pleading. Why even a simple favour blows up into a week-long argument.
I’m tired. Tired of being the peacekeeper. Tired of begging for basic decency. I just want Mum to feel valued, and James to realise that help isn’t always an obligation—sometimes it’s just respect for the woman who’s always stood by him.
Sometimes I wonder—should I push harder? Or maybe ease off? Or just do everything myself and say nothing? I don’t know.
But I do know this—I don’t want Lily ever stuck like this. I want her to grow up with love, understanding, respect. No wars between her husband and her grandma.
How to make that happen? That’s the million-pound question.
