“My mother gave us her only home, and my wife turned my life into hell”—how I saw her true face 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. My father passed away when I was still a teenager, and from that moment, my mother carried the weight of both of us on her shoulders. By day, she sold goods at the market, and by night, she cleaned at the local supermarket. Every penny went toward food, bills, and—most importantly—my education. She dreamed of a different life for me. A brighter one. A quieter one. A successful one.
During my second year at university, I fell head over heels in love. Hopelessly. Foolishly. Her name was Gemma. A stunner, the prettiest girl in the entire department. Tall, radiant, with a confidence in her voice that made every lad weak at the knees. She’d even won the title of “Miss University” that year.
I never expected her to so much as glance my way. But one day, during an economics exam, she sat beside me. Didn’t know an answer—asked for help. I gave it. Then again. And again. Before long, it became a pattern. I helped with essays, coursework, even scribbled notes for her. Then, out of the blue, she invited me to the cinema. Said she wanted to thank me. I couldn’t believe my luck.
A year later, I proposed. Gemma said yes. And I was certain it was the peak of my happiness. Back then, we thought everything lay ahead of us. But even then, the first warning signs appeared. Her parents treated me coldly. Told me outright their daughter could’ve chosen someone “better off.” I swallowed my pride. Love isn’t about money, is it?
After the wedding, we had no place of our own. So my mother—my poor, selfless mother—offered us the flat she’d recently inherited from her cousin. She moved back to the countryside, to the old house where she’d grown up. “I’m nearly sixty,” she said. “I’ll be more at peace there. You two can start your life here.”
Gemma wasn’t thrilled about the flat, but she agreed. Her parents gifted her a brand-new Lexus for the wedding. A present solely for her—something she never let me forget. When I once asked for a lift to visit my mum—only 20 miles away—she snapped:
“What am I, your chauffeur? Take the train if you want. I’m not driving out to your backwater.”
From then on, I went alone. Every week, without fail. Brought groceries, medicine, helped with chores. Mum never asked. But I knew she struggled. Her pension barely covered anything.
Meanwhile, Gemma denied herself nothing. Shopping sprees? Of course. Weekend parties with her mates? Always. But if I asked her to visit my cousin or come to Mum’s friend’s birthday, it was an instant meltdown. If I insisted? I’d sleep on a mattress on the floor. No words. No explanations.
Slowly, she began accusing me of “spending too much” on my mother.
“Did you marry me or your mum? Stop handing her money! She’s old—let her sit quietly and stop making demands!” she spat one evening over dinner.
I stared at her, unrecognising. Where was the sweet, lively girl I’d gone to the cinema with, sharing coffee between lectures? In her place stood a cold, calculating woman who measured everything in profit and loss.
When I explained Mum was ill, needed medicine, couldn’t manage without me—Gemma stood and said:
“Choose. It’s her or me. Walk away now, and I won’t look back.”
I said nothing. That night, I didn’t sleep. The next morning, I dropped off Mum’s groceries, sat on a bench near her house, and cried for the first time in years. That day, I made my choice. I wouldn’t pick between my wife and my mother. Because if a woman forces a man to make that choice, she’s already lost.
I filed for divorce myself. No shouting. No drama. Just packed my things and left. Back to the flat Mum had given us “for happiness.” Gemma retreated to her parents’ place. The car, the friends, the nights out—all still hers.
And me? I’ve got Mum again. Warmth. Peace. No regrets. I turned a blind eye for too long. Stayed silent too long. Now? Not another minute wasted on someone who resents love for a mother.
Sometimes you have to lose something to find what’s real.
