How My Husband Secretly Supported His Mother While I Had Nothing to Dress Our Child In My husband and I don’t live in luxury – we do our best to make ends meet. We both have jobs, though neither pays much; I’d even call our incomes modest. We also have a four-year-old daughter. Anyone raising a child these days knows how expensive it is, and surviving on a tight budget isn’t easy at all. To make matters worse, my husband decided to help his mother out by paying her rent. We’re barely scraping by ourselves, yet he still sends money to his mum. She’s in perfect health and could get a part-time job if she wanted to. I’d happily work more, but with a small child someone needs to look after her after nursery. I’ve asked my mother-in-law countless times to babysit, but she always refuses, claiming she isn’t well enough. She says her health is too fragile. Then I found out she’d gone on holiday, and not a cheap one either. My husband only told me afterwards, saying that while she was away, he needed me to travel across the city to take care of her plants. I was beyond shocked. I could have spent that time earning extra money elsewhere, not tending to her flowers. But what truly stunned me was something else. Recently, my mother-in-law has started living a posh lifestyle. Expensive accessories, boutique dresses—she always seems to have something new. I kept wondering where she was getting the money. My husband always made such a fuss about his poor mother not being able to pay her rent, yet here we are. Could she have found a well-off gentleman friend to support her? One day I noticed my husband hauling around the same extraordinarily heavy bag. When he went to the bathroom, curiosity got the better of me and I peeked inside—there was a bunch of tech equipment, including a laptop that used to belong to my friend. The next day at work, my friend mentioned that my husband had done some repairs for her—turns out, he’s earning extra cash repairing electronics. So that’s where the money is coming from! When I confronted him and asked if he was giving all of his side hustle income to his mother, he admitted it. “So my daughter and I have nothing to wear, we’re darning socks just to get by, while you’re sending your mum on spa breaks and buying her designer clothes?” “They’re my earnings. I can spend them however I like.” Needless to say, I sent him away to stay with his mum, since he cares for her so much. Isn’t that only fair?

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 2

How My Husband Secretly Supported His Mother While I Had Nothing For Our Child To Wear

Michael and I don’t live a life of luxurywe struggle along as best we can. Both of us work, but neither job pays particularly well. I’d even say our earnings are rather small. We have a four-year-old daughter, Emily. As anyone knows, raising a little one these days in England is frightfully expensive, and scraping by on a tight budget isn’t easy.

To top it off, Michael decided he should help his mother with her rent. Meanwhile, we could barely keep our heads above water yet somehow he still gave money to his mum. She’s perfectly healthy and could easily pick up a part-time job. Id do it myself, but I have to look after Emilysomeone needs to watch her after nursery. Ive asked Michael’s mother numerous times if she could watch Emily for a couple of hours, but she always refused, claiming she wasnt well enough. She insisted her health wouldnt allow it.

Then I found out that Michaels mother had gone away on a lovely holidaycertainly not a cheap one. I only heard about it when Michael informed me bluntly that while his mum was sunning herself abroad, he expected me to go all the way across London to water her precious plants. To say I was upset doesn’t begin to cover it. Time I could have spent earning a bit extra, he wanted me traipsing about after her begonias.

But what truly shocked me was something else. Lately, Michael’s mum has been swanning about in the height of fashiondesigner bags, boutique dresses, the lot. It made me wonder where on earth she was getting the money. Michael had always complained that poor Mum couldn’t pay her own rent, but here she was, living it up. Maybe she picked up a well-off gentleman, I thought.

And then, one evening, I noticed that Michael was lugging the same old battered holdall around, stuffed to the seams. While he was in the bathroom, I peeked inside and found it full of electronics. One battered old laptop looked familiarit belonged to my friend Anna. The next day at work she mentioned that Michael was making a bit extra on the side, repairing gadgets.

So thats where the money was coming from! When I confronted him and asked if he was funneling all those extra pounds to his mother, he didnt even hesitate; he said yes.

So Emily and I are mending our socks a dozen times, scrambling for enough to buy her a coat, and youre busy sending your mother to fancy resorts and buying her clothes in boutiques?

These are my wages. Ill spend them wherever I choose.

You can imagine I didnt stick around for much longer. If he loves his mother that much, he can go and live with her, cant he? Its only right.

The Manor Smelled of French Perfume—and Lovelessness. Little Lizzie Knew Only One Pair of Warm Hands: Her Nanny Nora’s. But One Day Money Vanished from the Safe, and Those Hands Disappeared Forever. Twenty Years Later, Lizzie Stands on a Doorstep—Child in Her Arms, and the Truth Burning in Her Throat… *** The Scent of Dough Was the Smell of Home. Not the home with its marble staircase and the glittering chandelier that hung three storeys, where Lizzie grew up. No—her real home, the one she invented for herself, perched on a stool in a big country kitchen, watching Nora’s hands—red from the water—knead the springy dough. “Why is dough alive?” five-year-old Lizzie would ask. “Because it breathes,” Nora would answer, never stopping her work. “See those bubbles? It’s happy—it’s about to go into the oven. Strange, isn’t it? To be glad for the fire.” Lizzie didn’t understand then. Now she did. She stood on the verge of a rutted country lane, hugging four-year-old Mikey to her chest. The bus had gone, dropping them in the grey February dusk, and now there was only silence—the kind of deep, village silence where you can hear snow creak under a stranger’s steps three houses away. Mikey didn’t cry. He’d mostly stopped crying these past months—he’d learned. He simply stared up with eyes too somber for a child, and every time Lizzie shuddered: his father’s eyes; his father’s jaw; his father’s silence—the same silence that always hid something. Don’t think of him. Not now. “Mummy, I’m cold.” “I know, sweetheart. We’ll find it soon.” She didn’t know the address. Didn’t even know if Nora was alive—twenty years had passed, nearly a lifetime. All Lizzie remembered: “Pine Village, Kent.” And the scent of that dough. And the warmth of those hands—the only hands in that grand house to stroke her hair for no reason at all. The road led past sagging fences. Here and there, windows glowed—warm, yellow, alive. Lizzie stopped at the last cottage simply because her legs wouldn’t carry her further, and Mikey had grown heavy as lead. The gate creaked. Two snow-covered steps up the porch. An old wooden door, its paint flaking with age. She knocked. Silence. Then—slow, shuffling footsteps. The sound of a bolt being drawn. And a voice—husky, older, but as familiar as a lullaby, so much that Lizzie’s breath caught: “Who’s knocking this dark night?” The door swung open. A tiny old woman stood on the threshold, cardigan over her nightdress. Her face—wrinkled as a baked apple. But the eyes, those eyes—faded blue, undimmed, still alive. “Nora…” The old woman froze. Then, slowly, she raised a work-worn, knobbly-fingered hand and touched Lizzie’s cheek. “Heavens… Lizzie?” Lizzie’s knees buckled. She stood, clutching her son, unable to speak—only tears, scalding hot, ran down her frozen cheeks. Nora asked nothing. Not “where from?”, not “why?”, not “what happened?”. She just took her old coat from the nail by the door and draped it around Lizzie’s shoulders. Then she gently lifted Mikey—he didn’t flinch, only looked up with those dark eyes—and held him close. “There, love, you’re home at last,” Nora murmured. “Come in, sweetheart. Come in.”

“Please… don’t leave me on my own again. Not tonight.” Those were the last words 68-year-old retired British officer John Hammond whispered before collapsing on his living room floor—and the only soul to hear him was the one who’d stood by him every day for the past nine years: his ageing, loyal Labrador, Duke. John was never one for tears or fuss, even after retirement, and even after losing his beloved wife. He kept his pain close, letting the neighbours see just a reserved widower taking slow evening strolls with his old black Lab. They shuffled on together, two weary veterans of life, looking like they needed little more than each other. But that bitter winter evening, everything changed. Duke had been dozing by the electric fire when he heard the sickening thud—John’s body, lifeless on the parquet floor. With aching hips and stiff limbs, Duke dragged himself over, heart pounding, as he caught the scent of fear and heard the raspy breaths. John reached out, voice trembling, words lost but emotion clear—fear. Hurt. Farewell. Desperation rising, Duke barked and clawed at the front door, nails scraping deep gouges in the old wood. His desperate yelps finally drew the attention of Sophie from next door—the young woman who occasionally brought John lemon drizzle cake. She knew the difference between a lazy morning bark and a cry for help. She dashed across, spotted John motionless through the window, and frantically rummaged under the plant pot for the “just in case” spare key. Twice she fumbled, nearly dropping it, but at last she burst through the door as John’s eyes rolled back, Duke standing guard and whining as if his own heart was breaking. With trembling hands, she dialled 999. Within minutes, paramedics filled the once-quiet house. Duke, usually docile, stood between them and John, body quaking but unmoved, heart unwilling to leave his partner for even a moment. “Miss, we need to get the dog out of the way!” one paramedic called. Sophie tried gently, but Duke held his ground, as if pleading for mercy with his eyes. The senior paramedic—a man named Collins—paused, noticing Duke’s greying muzzle, worn collar, and the faded service tag still swinging from it. “That’s not just a pet,” Collins murmured. “That’s a fellow officer.” He knelt low, voice soft: “Easy now, mate—we’re here to help John. Let us do our job.” Something shifted in Duke’s old eyes. With great effort, he inched aside, but never more than a heartbeat away from John. As the team lifted John to a stretcher, his hand drooped over the side. Duke let out a howl so mournful even the busy paramedics stopped. Desperate to follow, Duke’s legs buckled at the threshold, nails scraping helplessly on the frosty path. “We can’t take the dog,” the ambulance driver insisted. “It’s against the rules.” Barely conscious, John’s lips parted: “Duke…” Collins made a snap decision. “Sod the protocol—help him in.” Together, the paramedics hefted the heavy old retriever into the ambulance, laying him by John’s side. As Duke’s head pressed against his partner, the heart monitor steadied—just enough to give everyone hope. *Four Hours Later* The quiet beep of machines was the first thing John knew, until a gentle voice reassured him: “You’re safe, Mr Hammond. You gave us quite a scare.” He swallowed. “Where’s… my dog?” The nurse hesitated—no pets allowed on the ward—but thought better of her answer. She pulled back the curtain. There, curled up on a wool blanket, lay Duke, rising and falling with slow, exhausted breaths. Collins had refused to leave Duke behind, pointing out John’s vital signs fell every time the dog was removed. Moved by the bond, the doctor granted a quiet Compassionate Care Exception. “Duke…” John whispered. Duke raised his head, tail thumping weakly as he limped to the bedside. John buried his hand in that familiar fur, tears beginning to fall. “I thought I’d lost you, old boy. I thought this was goodbye.” Duke rested his head by John’s hand, licking the tears away as if promising: not yet, not tonight. The nurse lingered in the doorway, dabbing her eyes. “He didn’t just save your life,” she said softly. “I think you saved his too.” That night, John didn’t face the darkness alone. His hand lay across the covers, fingers intertwined with Duke’s paw—two steadfast partners, reminding each other that, come what may, neither would be left behind again. May this story find the hearts that need it the most. 💖