My Husband Saves Everyone But His Own Family
My name is Eleanor, and I’ve been married for six years. My husband, James, is kind-hearted, hardworking, and generous—a man with a golden touch. But that gold isn’t meant for me or our son. It’s scattered in pieces to everyone else—his family, his cousins, his neighbours—everyone but us.
James has a large family. His mother, his brother, two aunts, a handful of cousins, even distant relatives—somehow, every single one has a problem only he can solve. And never at a reasonable hour. They call at midnight, on our anniversary, when our son is burning up with fever.
Before we married, I knew he was close with his family, but the true extent of his devotion only became clear after we moved to his hometown. His grandmother left us a small flat—nothing grand, but ours. Relatives promised help finding work, so I agreed to the move. Two months later, we had our wedding.
At first, I dismissed his constant running around—helping here, fixing there—as wedding stress or settling in. But it never stopped. James would spend hours digging his mother’s garden, drive half an hour to patch his brother’s leaking roof, then take his uncle to the chemist in the dead of night. He’d stumble home exhausted, muttering about being worn out, and I’d try to spoil him—breakfast in bed, a quiet house—but the moment he recovered, the phone would ring. And off he’d go again.
I stayed silent. Patient. Hoping he’d wake up, realise he had a wife now, a home, responsibilities. But no. His energy went to them. I was left scrubbing floors, assembling furniture, arranging repairs. I hung wallpaper alone. I called a technician to install the dishwasher because James was never home.
I never screamed. I spoke softly, gently. Reminded him I was his wife, not some flatmate. He’d kiss my hands, beg me to understand, even tear up—*”I can’t say no to them.”*
When I got pregnant, I thought things would change. For a while, they did. He fussed over me, carried groceries, drove me to appointments. We were happy. Then, the moment the morning sickness faded, the calls resumed. The aunts, the brother, the leaky tap only James could fix.
*”I help them now,”* he’d say, *”so they’ll help us later.”*
But no one ever did. When our son was born, James stayed close for a month—then vanished again. I woke alone, slept alone, pushed the pram alone while he built a shed for his uncle, fetched shopping for his aunt, moved furniture for his sister. They rang at all hours, and he ran. When our washing machine broke? His cousin *”didn’t have time”*—another repairman, another bill.
And the worst part? At family gatherings, they’d praise him—*”What a saint! Such a good man!”*—and I’d smile stiffly, because they saw a hero, while I lived with a ghost.
I tried to talk to him. He’d wave me off—
*”You’re imagining things. You have everything. What more do you want?”*
I want a husband who stays. Who watches his son grow. Who sees *us* as the emergency worth dropping everything for.
Sometimes I think I’m just wallpaper—a woman who dishes up dinner and watches him leave for his next grand rescue. And maybe that’s enough for him.
But it’s not enough for me. Not anymore.
