My Husband Saves Everyone But His Own Family
My name is Eleanor, and I’ve been married for six years. My husband, James, is a kind, hardworking man—brilliant with his hands and generous to a fault. And that would be wonderful, if all that generosity wasn’t poured into everyone but his own family.
James has a large family—his mother, a brother, two aunts, several cousins, even distant relatives. Without fail, every single one of them has some emergency only he can solve. And not tomorrow, not on weekends—but right now. At midnight. On our anniversary, or when our son has a fever.
Before we married, I knew he was close to them, but the full scale of his devotion only became clear after we moved to his hometown. We inherited a modest flat from his grandmother—small but ours. His relatives had promised to help him find work, so I agreed to the move without hesitation. Two months later, we had our wedding.
At first, I put his constant running around down to wedding stress and settling in. But it never stopped. James would spend half the day digging his mum’s garden, then drive 15 miles to help his brother patch a leaky roof, then take his uncle to the chemist in the dead of night. By morning, he’d collapse exhausted, muttering about how tired he was, and I’d try to pamper him—breakfast in bed, peace and quiet. But the second he caught his breath, the phone rang again. Off he’d dash.
I stayed quiet. Patient. Hoping it would pass, that he’d realise he had a family now—me, our home, responsibilities here too. But no. All his energy went to them. Meanwhile, I juggled cleaning, DIY, furniture shopping, fixing things alone. I hung wallpaper by myself. Shifted furniture alone. Called a plumber when the sink leaked, because James was never around.
I never screamed at him. Just spoke calmly, reminding him I was his wife, not some flatmate. He’d nod, kiss my hands, beg me to understand, near tears as he said he couldn’t refuse them.
When I got pregnant, I thought things would change. Suddenly, I mattered. He carried my bags, cooked, took me to appointments. We were truly close. But within a month—back to normal. The morning sickness faded, and so did his attention. It was back to Aunt Mary needing a lift, Uncle Dave’s burst pipe, Mum’s broken tap—only James could fix it.
“They’ll return the favour when we need help,” he’d say.
But in all these years, none of them ever have. When our son was born, James tried for the first month. Then he vanished again. I woke up alone. Went to bed alone. Pushed the pram alone. He was at his uncle’s building project, fetching shopping for his aunt, moving his sister’s wardrobe. Any hour, day or night, they’d call—and off he went. When our washing machine broke, his cousin “couldn’t find the time”—had to call a repairman.
The worst part? At family gatherings, they all praise him: “What a legend! Absolute gem of a man! Always comes through!” And I sit there with a stiff smile, knowing 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 brushes me off:
“You’ve got everything. What more do you want?”
What do I want? A husband who’s home. Who sees his son grow up. Who treats our life like it’s urgent too. Who doesn’t make me feel like an afterthought in his own story.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m just a shadow—the woman who serves him dinner and watches him leave for the next grand rescue. And clearly, that’s enough for him.
But it’s not for me. Not anymore.
