My Husband Saves Everyone Except His Own Family
My name is Eleanor, and I’ve been married for six years. My husband, Edward, is a kind-hearted, hardworking man with a talent for fixing just about anything. On paper, he’s perfect—except his generosity never seems to stretch far enough to reach his own family.
Edward has a large extended family—his mother, brother, two aunts, several cousins, even distant relatives—all of whom seem to have emergencies only he can solve. And not later, not at a convenient time, but immediately. At midnight. On our anniversary. Or when our son has a fever.
Before we married, I knew he was close to his family, but the full scale 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, so I agreed to the move without hesitation. A few months later, we had our wedding.
At first, I brushed off his constant errands—helping here, driving there—as part of settling in and wedding preparations. But it never stopped. Edward would spend half a day digging his mum’s garden, then drive twenty miles to help his brother patch up a leaky roof, then rush his uncle to the chemist in the dead of night. By morning, he’d collapse, muttering about exhaustion, while I tried to soothe him—breakfast in bed, quiet, comfort. But the moment he caught his breath? Another phone call. Another sprint out the door.
I stayed quiet. Endured it. Hoped it would pass. Surely he’d realise he had a family now—me, a home, responsibilities of his own. But no. Every scrap of energy went to them. I handled everything else—cleaning, decorating, furniture, bills. I hung the wallpaper myself. Moved the furniture alone. The plumber who fixed the dishwasher? I called him. Because Edward was never free.
I never shouted. Spoke calmly. Reminded him I was his wife, not just some lodger. He’d nod, kiss my hands, nearly tearful, insisting he couldn’t let his family down.
When I got pregnant, I thought things would change. For a while, they did. He doted on me—carried my bags, cooked, drove me to appointments. We felt like a proper family. But a month later? Back to normal. The second my morning sickness eased, it was Aunt Margaret needing a lift, his brother’s dodgy boiler, his mum’s burst pipe—Edward the only one who could save the day.
“Helping them now means they’ll help us later,” he’d say.
Except they never did. When our son was born, Edward 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, fetching shopping for his aunt, moving his sister’s wardrobe. They called at all hours, and he went. When our washing machine broke, his cousin “couldn’t find time”—I had to book a repairman.
The worst part? At family gatherings, they’d praise him—”What a gem! Such a good man!”—while I smiled tightly. Because they saw a hero. I lived with a man who had no time or energy left for me.
I tried talking to him. He’d just shrug.
“You’ve got everything. What more do you want?”
What I want is simple. A husband who’s home. Who sees his son grow up. Who treats our life like it matters as much as theirs. Sometimes I feel like a shadow—the woman who serves his dinner and watches him leave for another “rescue mission.”
And while he’s perfectly content… I’m not. Not anymore.
