**Diary Entry**
My husband saves everyone—except his own family.
My name is Emily, and I’ve been married for six years. My husband, James, is a good man—hardworking, kind-hearted, and always willing to lend a hand. That would be lovely if it weren’t for the fact that his generosity seems to stretch to every relative except our own little family.
James comes from a large family—his mother, a brother, two aunts, several cousins, even distant relatives—all of them seemingly convinced that he’s the only one who can solve their problems. And not just any time, no. It’s always urgent. At midnight. On our anniversary. Or when our son is running a fever.
Before we married, I knew he was close to his family, but the full extent of his devotion only became clear after we moved to his hometown. We inherited a modest flat from his grandmother, and his relatives promised to help him find work. Naively, I agreed to the move. A few months later, we had our wedding.
At first, I brushed off his constant errands—helping here, driving there—as just pre-wedding chaos or settling in. But it never stopped. James would spend half the day digging his mum’s garden, then drive 15 miles to fix his brother’s roof, and later, at night, haul his uncle to the chemist. By morning, he’d collapse exhausted, grumbling about how tired he was. I’d try to pamper him—breakfast in bed, a quiet house—but the moment he caught his breath, the phone would ring. And off he went again.
I bit my tongue. I waited. Hoped he’d realise—he has a family now. A home. Responsibilities. But no. All his energy went to them. Meanwhile, I juggled everything alone—cleaning, the endless DIY, choosing furniture, handling bills. I hung wallpaper myself. Moved furniture alone. Called a repairman when the dishwasher broke because James was “too busy.”
I never shouted. I spoke calmly. Reminded him I was his wife, not some flatmate. He’d nod, kiss my hand, near tears, insisting, *”I can’t just say no to family.”*
When I got pregnant, I thought—*this will change things.* For a while, it did. He doted on me, carried my bags, cooked, drove me to check-ups. We were closer than ever. But a month later, it was back to normal. The morning sickness barely faded before the calls resumed—his aunt, his brother, his mum’s leaking tap. Only James could fix it.
*”They’d do the same for us,”* he’d say.
But in all these years, not one of them has. When our son was born, James tried—for the first month. Then he vanished again. I woke alone, slept alone, pushed the pram alone. He was at his uncle’s building site, helping his aunt shop, moving his cousin’s wardrobe. Any hour, day or night, if they called, he’d go. Our washing machine broke—his cousin, a repairman, *”couldn’t find the time.”* I paid a stranger to fix it.
And the worst part? At family gatherings, they all praise him: *”What a saint! Such a good man!”* I sit there, forcing a smile, because they see a hero—while I live with a man who has no time or energy left for me.
I’ve tried talking to him. He just waves me off.
*”You’re overthinking. You have everything. What more do you want?”*
All I want is simple—for my husband to be home. To see his son grow. To have *our* emergencies matter just as much. To not feel like an afterthought in his life.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just a shadow. The woman who serves him dinner and watches silently as he leaves for yet another *”mission.”* And I suppose—for him—that’s enough.
For me? Not anymore.
