“Mum gave us her only home, and my wife made my life hell” — how I saw her true colours after the wedding.
I was never wealthy, never wore designer clothes or drove flashy cars. I grew up in an ordinary working-class family in Sheffield. Dad passed when I was still a boy, and from then on, Mum carried us both on her back. She worked market stalls by day and cleaned the local Asda by night. Every penny went on food, bills, and—most of all—my education. She dreamed I’d have a different life. Brighter. Calmer. Successful.
At uni, during my second year, I fell hard. Completely. Recklessly. Her name was Poppy. A knockout, the prettiest girl on campus. Tall, striking, with a voice so self-assured it made blokes weak at the knees. She’d even won “Miss University” that year.
I never thought she’d look twice at me. But one day, during an economics exam, she sat beside me. Didn’t know an answer, asked for help. I obliged. Then again. And again. Just like that, we were a thing. I helped with essays, coursework, even scribbled cheat sheets. Then she asked me to the cinema—said it was to thank me. I couldn’t believe my luck.
A year later, I proposed. Poppy said yes. And I was sure this was the pinnacle of happiness. We thought everything lay ahead. But the warning signs were already there. Her parents were icy toward me. Said straight to my face their daughter could’ve done “better”—richer. I bit my tongue. Love isn’t about money, right?
After the wedding, we had no home of our own. So my mum—my poor, selfless mum—offered us the flat she’d inherited from her cousin. She moved back to her childhood village, to the old cottage where she’d grown up. “I’m near sixty,” she said. “The quiet will do me good. You start your life here.”
Poppy wasn’t thrilled about the flat, but she agreed. Her parents gifted her a brand-new Audi for the wedding. A present just for her—she never let me forget it. When I once asked for a lift to visit Mum—just 20 miles—she snapped:
“What am I, your chauffeur? Fancy a trip—take the train. I’m not driving to your backwater.”
From then on, I went alone. Every weekend, without fail. Brought groceries, medicine, helped with chores. Mum never asked. But I knew she struggled. Her pension barely covered the essentials.
Meanwhile, Poppy denied herself nothing. Shopping sprees? Of course. Nights out with her mates? Always. But if I suggested visiting my cousin or Mum’s old friend’s birthday, it was meltdown city. If I pushed it, I slept on the floor. No words, no explanation.
Slowly, she started accusing me of “spending too much on Mum.”
“Did you marry me or your mother? Stop funneling money to her! She’s old—let her sit quietly!” she spat one evening over dinner.
I stared, wondering where the sweet, lively girl I’d chased through cinemas and shared coffees between lectures had gone. In her place stood a cold, calculating woman who saw everything as profit or loss.
When I explained Mum was ill, needed medication, couldn’t manage without help—Poppy stood and said:
“Choose. Her or me. Walk away, and I won’t look back.”
I said nothing. Didn’t sleep that night. Next morning, I dropped off groceries, sat on a bench outside Mum’s place, and cried for the first time in years. That day, I made my choice. I wouldn’t pick between wife and mother. Because if a woman forces that choice, she’s already lost.
I filed for divorce. No shouting, no scenes. Just packed my things and left. Back to the flat Mum gave us for “a fresh start.” Poppy stayed with her parents. Car, friends, nights out—all intact.
And me? I’ve got Mum again. Warmth. Peace. No regrets. I turned a blind eye too long. Stayed silent too long. Now? Not a second more wasted on someone who resents love for family.
Sometimes you have to lose to find what’s real.
