I Always Reminded My Husband He Was Living in My Flat—One Weekend He Packed His Bags and Left

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 1

I blamed my husband for living in my flat. One weekend, he packed his things and left.

Not long ago, my family and I visited the countryside, where we heard a fascinating story from the locals. It goes like this. Theres Victoria, the ex-wife of Peter. Their marriage lasted over twenty years. I dont know every detail, only what the villagers shared with me.

After their wedding, Victorias parents gave the newlyweds a flat. At that time, Peter worked in a furniture factory, while Victoria had a job in administration. Their salaries were decent, and they lived comfortably. Peter was especially good with his hands and did everything needed in their new home.

They had a single child, a son. He wasnt particularly pleasant: troublesome and overly self-assured. His mum let him do as he pleased, while his dad tried to set limits. This constant clash led to lots of arguments between Victoria and Peter. Peter was firm that their son should grow up independent and responsible.

When their son, Henry, was very little, his father tried to teach him to work with his hands. Peter insisted that everyone should be able to tackle everyday repairs and practical problems. At first, Henry was interested, but he lost that interest soon enough.

Victoria, on the other hand, took a totally different approach. She told Henry he didnt have to lift a finger, that manual work wasnt for him. She was always buying him expensive gifts, which only made him lazier and more used to getting things easily.

All of this took its toll on their marriage. Victoria and Peter argued constantly. Eventually, Henry finished school and headed for college. The parents paid for his studies, but he wasnt interested and received poor marks.

So who do we have here? Peter would say. Hes not interested in anything! Happy to let everyone else do things for him. Maybe youll find him a job as well? Oh, no. Let him stay your responsibility. Thats best! he scolded me.

Why is it just my concern? Hes your son, too.
Hes not a child anymore, in a few months he turns eighteen! Hes a grown man. Let him go his own way. I warned you, but you never listened. Id have raised him to be a proper man, but you wouldnt let me. Now look where we are.

Are you happy with your life? Youve lived in my flat for years! And you still havent bought your own. So dont talk to me about your rights! I dont want someone like that telling me how to raise my son.

Thats exactly the issue! I never thought youd start accusing me over the flat. Lets get this straight, darling: we got those keys as a wedding gift. I always thought it was for the both of us. I worked hard, and look at what we built together. Not everyone gets such a lovely place to live. And you talk like that? I never expected it.

Victoria sighed and left the room. After that argument, things between them only worsened. Henry agreed with his mum and ignored his fathers requests for help, always finding something else to occupy himself. Peter realised that his family no longer needed him.

One weekend, he packed his bags and moved out. It turned out Peter had been saving for years, planning to buy his own home. He dreamed of a peaceful retirement with Victoria, perhaps by a quiet stream. So, he settled in our village. It took him a few months to finish up the house. Soon, he met another womana widow named Ellen. Two years have now passed, and theyve started living together.

As for Victoria and Henry? Not once did they call or reach out to Peter. Sometimes thats just how life plays out.

“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.