Quietly stepping into the hallway, I caught sight of my husband, Geoff, slipping a banknote into his mother’s coat pocket. At that moment, my mother-in-law, Evelyn, sat at our kitchen table, happily chatting with the other guests. The scene took me by surprise, and I froze, uncertain what to think. Why was Geoff doing this in secret? And why did I feel as if I’d been deceived in my own home?
Geoff and I had been married five years. Ours was not a perfect marriage, but we loved each other and were building a life together. I worked as an accountant at a small firm; Geoff drove lorries for a haulage company. We made ends meet, but there were no luxuries—just rent, savings for car repairs, and the occasional modest holiday. Evelyn lived nearby in the next neighbourhood. She often visited, bringing homemade scones and sharing the latest gossip. I always tried to be polite, though her remarks about my cooking or housekeeping sometimes stung.
That evening was like any other. We had friends over for supper, and Evelyn joined us. I busied myself in the kitchen, preparing salads and the main course, while Geoff helped set the table. As usual, Evelyn held court—joking, reminiscing about her youth, and offering everyone her famous blackberry jam. The guests laughed, the mood was warm. But needing another plate from the cabinet in the hallway, I slipped away. That’s when I saw Geoff glance around before tucking a note into his mother’s coat.
My breath caught. My pulse raced as questions whirled in my mind. Why was he doing this? Why the secrecy? We’d never hidden helping our parents before. I sometimes gave money to my own mother, and Geoff knew. Yet he’d said nothing about helping Evelyn—especially not like this. I returned to the kitchen, forcing calm, but inside, I was roiling. Evelyn kept smiling, telling another story, and I wondered: did she know her son had just slipped her money?
After supper, once the guests had left and Evelyn gone home, I confronted him. “Geoff, I saw you putting money in your mum’s coat. Why didn’t you tell me?” He faltered, then frowned. “Kate, what’s with the interrogation? She needed it for medicine.” I was taken aback. “Medicine? You could’ve told me. We’d have discussed it.” He waved me off. “Didn’t want to bother you. It’s my money—my business.”
His words stung. *His* money? Hadn’t we always shared expenses? We discussed big purchases, made plans together. Now it seemed he was sneaking money to his mother as if I’d refuse. I recalled Evelyn recently boasting of a new handbag, and before that, a trip to see a friend in another town. Was Geoff giving her more than just medicine money? And why did she accept it without a word, sitting at our table, eating our food?
I waited to speak again when tempers had cooled. The next evening over dinner, I began carefully. “Love, I don’t mind you helping your mum. But let’s talk about it. Our money’s shared—I’d like to know where it goes.” He sighed. “Kate, she’s too proud to ask outright. Her pension hardly covers things, and I didn’t want her feeling awkward.” I nodded but pressed, “Then why hide it? I’m not the enemy.” After a pause, he admitted he feared my reaction. “You grumble when I spend on things,” he said.
I thought about that. Perhaps he was right. I *did* complain if he bought something frivolous, like yet another fishing rod when his old one still worked. But helping his mother was different. I’d have understood had he told me. His secrecy made me feel like an outsider. Worse, I couldn’t shake the thought that Evelyn knew—and said nothing, still smiling sweetly at me.
I decided to speak with her. I rang her up and invited her for tea. When she arrived, I steeled myself. “Evelyn, I know Geoff’s been giving you money. I don’t object—but I dislike it being done behind my back.” She seemed surprised, then recovered smoothly. “Oh, Katie, I never asked—he insists. It’s not my fault.” Her tone was so innocent, I second-guessed myself. Was I making too much of it?
Yet the unease lingered. I loved Geoff, respected his mother, but I wanted no secrets in our marriage. We agreed to discuss all spending, including helping our parents. He promised openness; I promised less fuss over small things. But a trace of distrust remained. Now, whenever Evelyn visits, I watch her and wonder: is she truly honest with me? And can I trust Geoff as I once did?
This whole affair taught me that even the closest families have their silences. I want our home to be a place of honesty. Perhaps, in time, we’ll find a balance—where I stop suspecting Evelyn of slyness, and Geoff stops fearing my reactions. For now, I’m learning to speak my mind, hoping we’ll grow closer despite those hidden pounds in a coat pocket.
