“Mum gave us her only home, and my wife turned my life into hell” — how I saw her true colours after the wedding.
I was never wealthy, never wore designer labels or drove flash cars. I grew up in an ordinary working-class family in Liverpool. My dad passed away when I was just a teenager, and from then on, Mum struggled to keep us both afloat. She worked the market stalls by day and scrubbed floors at a local supermarket at night. Every penny went on food, bills, and, most importantly, my education. She dreamed of a different life for me—one that was brighter, quieter, and successful.
At uni, I fell head over heels. Hopelessly, recklessly. Her name was Daisy. Gorgeous, the most stunning girl on campus—tall, radiant, with a confidence that made every bloke’s knees weak. She even won “Miss University” that year.
I never expected her to glance my way, but during an economics exam, she sat next to me. Needed a few answers. I helped. Then again. And again. Soon, I was proofreading her essays, helping with assignments, writing her notes. Then she asked me to the cinema—said she wanted to thank me. I couldn’t believe my luck.
A year later, I proposed. Daisy said yes, and I thought it was the peak of happiness. We felt like the future was ours. But looking back, the warning signs were already there. Her parents were icy towards me, bluntly telling her she could’ve found someone “better off.” I bit my tongue. Love’s not about money, right?
After the wedding, we had no place of our own. That’s when Mum—my sweet, selfless Mum—offered us the flat she’d just inherited from her cousin. She moved back to the countryside, to the little cottage where she’d grown up. She said, “I’m pushing sixty now—I’ll be happier there. You two start your lives here.”
Daisy wasn’t thrilled about the flat, but she took it. Her parents gave her a brand-new BMW as a wedding gift—her gift, she never let me forget. Once, when I asked for a lift to see Mum (just 20 miles away), she snapped, “What, am I your chauffeur? Take the train if you wanna go. I’m not driving out to your middle-of-nowhere.”
After that, I went alone. Every week, without fail. Took groceries, medicine, helped with odd jobs. Mum never asked, but I knew she struggled. Her pension barely covered anything.
Meanwhile, Daisy never denied herself a thing. Shopping sprees? No problem. Nights out with her girls? Always free. But if I suggested visiting my cousin or going to Mum’s friend’s birthday? Meltdown. If I pushed it, I’d sleep on the floor, no words, no explanation.
Then she started accusing me of “spending too much on your mum.”
“Did you marry me or your mother? Stop wasting money on her! She’s old—she should sit tight and not make a fuss!” she spat one evening over dinner.
I stared at her, barely recognising her. Where was the sweet, joyful girl I’d run to cinemas with, sipping coffee between lectures? Replaced by a cold, calculating woman who saw everything as a transaction.
When I explained Mum was ill, needed medicine, needed my help, Daisy stood up and said, “Choose—her or me. Walk away now, I won’t look back.”
I stayed silent. Didn’t sleep that night. Next morning, I dropped off groceries to Mum, sat on a park bench near her place, and cried for the first time in years. That day, I made my choice. I wouldn’t pick between my wife and my mother. Because if a woman makes a man choose, she’s already lost.
I filed for divorce. No drama, no scenes. Just packed my things and left—back to the flat Mum gave us “for our happiness.” Daisy went back to her parents. Still had the car, still had her friends, still had her parties.
And me? I’ve got Mum. Warmth. Peace. No regrets. I ignored the signs for too long, stayed silent too long. Not one more minute with someone who resents love for family.
Sometimes you have to lose something to find what’s real.
