My Husband Saves Everyone Except His Own Family
My name is Marian, and I’ve been married for six years. My husband, Geoffrey, is a kind-hearted, hardworking man with a gift for fixing things. He’d be the perfect partner—if only that kindness weren’t scattered in pieces to every relative but his own family.
Geoffrey comes from a large family. His mother, a brother, two aunts, cousins, even distant relations—each one seems to have an emergency only he can solve. And not on weekends, not with notice, but urgently. At night. On our anniversary, or the day our son falls ill.
Before we wed, I knew he was close to his kin, but the true depth of his “loyalty” only became clear after we married and moved to his hometown. We inherited a modest flat from his grandmother—small, but ours. His family had promised help finding work, so I agreed without hesitation. A few months later, we had our wedding.
At first, I dismissed his constant errands—helping here, driving there—as wedding preparations or settling in. But it only worsened. Geoffrey might spend half a day digging his mother’s garden, then drive twenty miles to patch his brother’s leaky roof, and still ferry an uncle to the chemist at midnight. By morning, he’d collapse into bed, muttering about exhaustion, and I’d try to make it easier—breakfast on a tray, quiet, comfort. But the moment he caught his breath, the phone would ring. Off he’d go again.
I stayed silent. Endured it. Hoped it would pass—that he’d see he had a family now, a home with its own needs. But no. All his energy poured outward, while I juggled cleaning, repairs, furniture, the dull grind of daily life. I hung wallpaper alone. Shifted furniture alone. Called a proper repairman for the dishwasher because Geoffrey “had no time.”
No tantrums. Just calm words—gently reminding him I was his wife, not a lodger. He’d kiss my hands, beg patience, near tears with all his “But how could I say no?”
When I fell pregnant, I thought surely now he’d change. For a while, I mattered. He carried bags, cooked, took me to the doctor. We were truly close. But a month later, it faded. Once the sickness passed, back came the aunts, the brother, the mother with a burst pipe only Geoffrey could mend.
“I help them now,” he’d say. “And one day, they’ll help us.”
Yet in all these years, not one of them has. When our son was born, Geoffrey tried—for a month. Then he vanished again. I woke alone, slept alone, pushed the pram alone. He was at his uncle’s building site, or fetching shopping for his aunt, or shifting a wardrobe for his sister. They called at all hours, and he went. Our washing machine broke—the cousin who “fixed things” was too busy. Another paid repair.
The cruelest part? When the whole clan gathers, they sing his praises—”What a lad! Solid as oak! Always there when you need him!” And I sit there, smiling stiffly, because they see a hero, while I live with a man who has no time or strength left for me.
I’ve tried talking. He just waves it off—”You’ve got everything. What more d’you want?”
What do I want? A husband who comes home. Who sees his son grow. Who treats our life like it matters as much as theirs. Sometimes I feel like a ghost—a woman who serves supper and watches silently as he rides off to another “rescue.”
And he’s happy with that.
But I’m not. Not anymore.
