My husband’s parents are well-off, yet they refused to help with the down payment for our flat. A child doesn’t need grandparents like that.
My husband James’s parents are wealthy. They live in a grand house in central Manchester, own multiple cars, and frequently holiday abroad. Meanwhile, I grew up in a modest family from a small town near Leeds. When James and I met and decided to marry, our different backgrounds didn’t matter. We were young, in love, and determined to build our life together—though we wouldn’t have turned down help if family had offered it, as Olivia shares.
James and I had long dreamed of owning our own flat. We were tired of bouncing between rented studios where the wallpaper peeled, the taps leaked, and landlords waited for any excuse to move us on. His parents knew about our struggles but pretended not to notice. They clearly had the means to help—if they’d wanted to. But they didn’t.
My parents live far away, in the Yorkshire countryside. Their income is modest, and I never expected financial support from them. James’s parents are right here in the city, but after the wedding, we chose not to live with them—we valued our independence. We rented, worked ourselves to the bone, and skipped holidays to save for a place of our own. His parents knew this, yet they kept their distance.
One evening over dinner, his mother asked—as usual—when she’d become a grandmother. I hinted, “We’ll think about children once we have our own flat. Right now, we can’t even afford the deposit.”
She nodded sympathetically but said nothing. Her gaze turned vacant, as if my words had evaporated into the air.
Months later, I found out I was pregnant. The news changed everything. When we told James’s parents, they were thrilled—congratulating us, making plans to dote on their grandchild. Seizing the moment, I asked if they might help with the deposit. A stable home, I reasoned, mattered for a child’s future.
His mother’s expression darkened. Coolly, she claimed they had no spare money and couldn’t assist. A lie—just the week before, his father had boasted to James about buying a new Range Rover. So a luxury car was affordable, but a home for their son and grandchild wasn’t.
I kept calm, but inside, I seethed. Our dream of a family home was crumbling. Resigned, I prepared for more years in a dingy rental—until help came from the last place I expected.
We visited my parents to share the pregnancy news. After listening, my mother revealed their decision: they’d sell their maisonette to give us the deposit. They insisted they’d be happier moving in with my gran in Cornwall, claiming country air suited them better.
I protested, but they wouldn’t budge. Within a month, the sale went through, and James and I had enough for the deposit—plus extra. Soon, we bought a cosy two-bed flat on Manchester’s outskirts. Finally, we had a nest to welcome our baby.
We’re happy now, secure. But James’s parents’ actions still haunt me. They prioritised a car over their own child’s stability. It stings. Not once during my pregnancy have they called to ask how I am or if we need anything. They live in comfort, untouched by care.
More and more, I believe our child won’t need grandparents like that. They’ve shown where their priorities lie. When our baby arrives, I’ll surround them with people who genuinely love them. And that won’t include those who value a new motor over their grandchild’s happiness.
