How My Husband Secretly Supported His Mother While I Had Nothing to Dress Our Child In

Author Walton MerrittReading 3 minViews 4

My husband secretly supported his mother while I barely had clothes for our child

We are far from wealthymy husband and I do our best to make ends meet, but truthfully, our incomes are modest. Both of us work, though what we earn hardly stretches far. There’s our four-year-old daughter as well. Anyone with a little one in England these days knows just how costly it is to raise a child; frankly, it can be a struggle to get by when every penny counts.

On top of this, my husband took it upon himself to help his mother with her rent. Were already just about managing to keep our heads above water, yet somehow theres extra money for my mother-in-law. What grates is that shes perfectly healthy and could easily pick up a part-time job. Id do it myself, but someone has to look after our daughter when she’s back from nursery school. Ive repeatedly asked my mother-in-law to help by looking after her granddaughter, just now and then, but she always refuses and complains she hasnt the strength, insisting her health isn’t up to it.

Then, bizarrely, I discover she’s off on holidayno cheap getaway either. My husband just dropped it on me, matter-of-factly, that while his mother was away, hed need me to trek across London just to tend to her precious plants. To say I was taken aback is putting it mildly. I couldnt help but think time spent on her houseplants could be better used picking up a little extra work to support our family.

But what truly shocked me was something else entirely. Lately, my mother-in-law seems to be living the high lifedesigner accessories, expensive dresses from boutiques, always impeccably turned out. I was left utterly baffled as to where she was getting the money for all these little luxuries. My husband had always painted her as this poor woman struggling to make her rent, and suddenly shes holidaying and shopping like a woman of means. Maybe, I thought, shes found herself a wealthy friend or benefactor, but still, it didnt quite add up.

Then one day, I noticed my husband lugging the same heavy satchel around. While he was in the bathroom, curiosity got the better of me and I peeked inside. It was full of electronics and one laptop I recognised as belonging to my friend. The very next day at work, my friend casually mentioned my husband was doing odd jobs fixing gadgets.

So thats where the money was coming from! When I confronted him and asked if all his extra earnings were being sent straight to his mother, he admitted as much.
So youre telling me that while our daughter and I are patching up old socks and making do with what we’ve got, youre sending your mother on upmarket breaks and buying her boutique outfits?

Theyre my earnings. I can spend them however I choose.

Theres little more to say, really, except that I sent him packing with his suitcase. If his mother is the most important person in his life, perhaps hes better off living with her. I cant help but feel thats only right, dont you think?

Why Should It Matter Who Cared for Grandma? Legally, That Flat Should Be Mine! – My Own Mother Is Fighting Me Over Grandma’s Home My own mother is threatening to take me to court. Why? Because grandma’s flat didn’t go to her, or even to me—it went straight to my daughter. My mum says it’s shockingly unfair. She believes the flat should have been hers. But my grandmother had other plans. Most likely because my husband and I lived with her and cared for her for the last five years of her life. My mum could easily be described as self-centred. Her wants and interests always seemed to matter far more to her than anyone else’s. She’s been married three times, but only had two children: me and my younger sister. My sister and I get on brilliantly, but our relationship with our mum is… complicated. I don’t even remember my father. He divorced my mum when I was just two. Until I turned six, I lived with Mum at Grandma’s place. For some reason, child-me thought Grandma was rather harsh—probably because Mum seemed to cry all the time. It wasn’t until years later, as an adult, that I realised Grandma was truly good at heart; she just wanted to help her daughter find her way. Later, Mum remarried, and the two of us moved in with my stepdad. That marriage brought my little sister into the world. Mum stayed married to him for seven years, but—once again—she got divorced. This time, instead of going back to Grandma’s, we stayed in my ex-stepdad’s flat, with his permission, until Mum married again three years later and we moved in with her new husband. He clearly wasn’t thrilled about his new wife’s children, but, to be fair, he never hurt us—he simply ignored us. Mum barely seemed to notice us, either. She was utterly absorbed in her new marriage, often jealous, even dramatic—smashing crockery to make her point. Roughly once a month, Mum would pack our bags, but our stepdad always got her to stay. My sister and I got used to it, barely reacting anymore. I took over caring for my sister; our mum was too busy. Thank goodness for our grandmothers, who really did their best to help. When I went off to uni, I moved into halls, and my sister moved in with Grandma. Our dad always did what he could for her. Mum? She only rang us at Christmas. I came to accept Mum as she is; I learnt not to expect her to worry about us. My sister, however, never really did—she harboured a lot of resentment. She was especially hurt when Mum didn’t come to her school-leaving do. We grew up. My sister got married and moved to another city. My boyfriend and I, while together a long time, weren’t in any rush to wed. We rented a flat and often visited Grandma, who I’d grown very close to. I tried not to be any bother to her. Then Grandma fell ill and ended up in hospital. The nurses said she’d need proper home care, so I started going round every day—shopping, cooking, cleaning up, chatting with her, and most importantly, making sure she took her medication. That went on for six months. Sometimes my boyfriend came with me—always fixing things, tidying up. Eventually, Grandma suggested we move in full-time; we could save for our own place instead of wasting money on rent. We jumped at the chance. Grandma adored my boyfriend and I loved being there for her. Six months later, I got pregnant. We happily decided to have the baby; Grandma was overjoyed to know she’d be a great-grandmother. We got married quietly, with a small celebration at a café with family. My mum didn’t even come—not a phone call, not a card. When my daughter was two months old, Grandma broke her leg. Suddenly I was caring for a newborn and a bedridden elderly lady. I desperately needed my mum’s help, so I rang her, but she refused—said she didn’t feel well and would come later. She never did. Six months later, Grandma suffered a stroke and became completely bedridden. The care was exhausting. Without my husband’s support, I don’t know what I’d have done. Over time, Grandma rallied—she could walk, eat, and talk again. She managed another two and a half years. She got to see her great-granddaughter take her first steps. When she passed away, peacefully in her sleep, it left my husband and me heartbroken—we loved her deeply, and we miss her so much. Mum only showed up for the funeral. A month later, she tried to evict me and claim Grandma’s flat for herself. She was certain it should be hers. What Mum didn’t realise was that Grandma had transferred ownership right after I gave birth to my daughter. So Mum got nothing. She was furious. She demanded I give her the flat, threatening court if I refused. — “Just look at her! You tricked the old lady, took her home, and now you’re living in it! Don’t think you’ll get away with this! It doesn’t matter who looked after Grandma—her flat should be mine!” But my mum will never get the flat. I’ve spoken to a solicitor and a notary, and everything’s perfectly legal. We’ll stay right here, in the home Grandma left us. And if we have another little girl, I’ll name her after my beloved grandmother.

“I Don’t Want to Be a Mum! I Just Want My Freedom! — My Daughter Told Me” My daughter fell pregnant at fifteen and kept it secret for months. My husband and I only found out when she was five months along. Abortion was never an option. We never discovered who the father was. Our daughter said they’d been together just three months before breaking it off. She didn’t even know his exact age. “Maybe seventeen, maybe eighteen… maybe nineteen!” she’d say. Naturally, my husband and I were shocked by the news — our daughter was going to have a baby. We knew it would be challenging for the whole family. And on top of everything, our daughter kept insisting she wanted the baby, she wanted to be a mum. I knew she didn’t really understand what that meant yet. Four months later, she gave birth to a wonderful little boy: healthy and strong. But the birth was very hard, and she spent four months recovering. There’s no way she could have managed without me, so I quit my job and took care of her and my grandson. When she recovered, she didn’t want anything to do with the baby. She slept through the nights and wouldn’t look after him during the day. I did all I could — talking, pleading, explaining, even shouting at her to help me. That’s when she said: “You love him so much — why don’t you adopt him? I’ll be his sister. I don’t want to be a mum, I want to go out with my friends, go dancing, have fun!” I thought maybe she was suffering from postnatal depression, but it turned out she just didn’t love her baby at all. Eventually, my husband and I sorted out the legalities and were granted custody of our grandson. Our daughter became completely unruly. She wouldn’t listen. She’d disappear overnight, coming home in the early morning hours, paying no attention to her son. That’s how we lived for years. We thought nothing would ever change. Our grandson grew taller, learned to walk and talk, and became a cheerful little boy. He’s thrilled when our daughter comes home: he runs to her, hugs her, and tells her stories. And somehow, her heart melted. She finally became a loving mother, spending all her free time with her son — constantly hugging and kissing him. She often says: “I’m so lucky to have a son! He’s the most precious thing in my life! I wouldn’t give him to anyone!” Now, my husband and I are so grateful that peace has finally returned to our family.