**Diary Entry, 12th March 2024**
My husband’s parents are well-off, but they refused to help us with the deposit for a flat—our child doesn’t need grandparents like that.
Jacob’s parents are comfortably well-to-do. They live in a grand townhouse in central Manchester, own a fleet of cars, and holiday abroad regularly. Meanwhile, I grew up in a modest family from a small Yorkshire village. When Jacob and I met and decided to marry, our different backgrounds didn’t matter. We were young, in love, and determined to build our life together without handouts. Of course, we wouldn’t have turned down help if offered—but none came.
We’d dreamt of owning our own flat for years. Sick of renting cramped one-bedders with peeling wallpaper and dodgy plumbing, always at the mercy of landlords eager to boot us out. Jacob’s parents knew our struggles yet acted oblivious. They had the means—had they wanted to, they could’ve helped. But clearly, they didn’t.
My parents still live up north, scraping by on pensions. I never expected them to chip in. Jacob’s folks were right here in the city, but after the wedding, we chose independence over moving in with them. We scrimped, skipped holidays, worked ourselves to the bone saving for a place of our own. They knew this. Still, they kept their distance.
One Sunday lunch, his mother asked—again—when we’d “give her grandchildren.” I swallowed my pride and hinted, “We’ll think about children once we’ve got a proper home. Right now, we can’t even afford the deposit.”
She gave a vague nod, eyes glazing over as if my words meant nothing.
Months later, I found out I was pregnant. The news turned everything upside down. When we told Jacob’s parents, they were over the moon—gushing about babysitting, planning nurseries. Gathering courage, I asked if they might help with the flat deposit, for the baby’s sake.
Her face went stony. “We’ve no spare cash,” she said flatly. A lie. Just days before, his father had bragged to Jacob about buying a new Range Rover. So, a car was worth more than their own grandchild’s home.
I bit my tongue, but the hurt festered. Our dream was crumbling. Then, unexpectedly, help came from the last place I’d thought to look.
Visiting my parents to share the news, Mum listened quietly before saying she and Dad had already decided: they’d sell their council flat to help us. They’d move in with Gran in Lincolnshire, insisting the countryside would suit them better anyway.
I protested, but they wouldn’t budge. A month later, the sale went through—we had our deposit, plus a little extra. Soon, we moved into a cosy two-bed in Salford, a nest for our growing family.
We’re settled now. Yet Jacob’s parents’ indifference still gnaws at me. A flashy car mattered more than their son’s future. Not once during my pregnancy did they call, ask how I was, or offer support. They’re too busy with their lavish, carefree lives to spare us a thought.
Some lessons cut deep. Blood doesn’t always mean family. When our child arrives, I’ll surround them with people who truly love them—not those who value status over kin.
