My parents aren’t millionaires, but they give everything they can. Yet my husband once snapped, *”My parents help with money—what do yours actually do?”*
His parents are well-off—steady jobs, a thriving business, no financial worries. From the start, they’ve supported us: bought us a flat, gifted appliances, covered half the wedding. No one denies that’s a huge help.
Mine, though, live modestly. They can’t buy us flats or fridges, but they help in their own way—taking the kids on weekends, bringing homemade meals, helping with DIY, picking out furniture, offering advice and quiet support. I’m endlessly grateful for it.
For a long time, my husband, Tom, seemed blind to it.
When we needed a full flat renovation, his parents didn’t hesitate to chip in. But Tom, without even consulting me, said suddenly, *”Liz, why don’t yours find us some decent tradesmen? At least they can help there—save us a bit on labour.”*
His tone made me flinch.
*”Tom, my parents can’t pay others to do the work. But Dad can do it himself—plastering, rewiring, everything. He’s got real skill.”*
Tom pulled a face, as if I’d suggested building the walls from sticks.
*”My parents are always bailing us out. Yours just feed us and give opinions,”* he muttered.
I snapped.
*”Yours help with money. Mine help with their hands, their time—without making a fuss. Dad would move in if it meant helping us. Mum stays up sketching furniture layouts. Do you even see that?”*
Tom fell silent, but his expression darkened. For days, he sulked, avoiding any talk of the renovation—as if my parents’ lack of cash was reason enough to resent the whole thing.
It hurt. Deeply. Because my mum and dad aren’t walking wallets. They’re real support. And just because they can’t throw thousands at us doesn’t make their help worthless.
I steeled myself and brought it up again. *”If we do this ourselves, it’ll cost a fraction. Dad can handle it. Mum’s got an eye for design. We’ll make it work—just give them a chance.”*
Tom relented. *”Fine. Do it your way. Just don’t let it drag on forever.”*
And then it began.
Dad brought his tools. He stripped tiles, plastered walls, drilled, glued, fixed. Tom trailed behind him, suddenly full of questions: *”How’d you do that? Why does this hold?”* For the first time, I saw respect in his eyes.
Mum came daily—scraping wallpaper, painting, scrubbing windows, helping us pick furniture. Though she’s a solicitor by trade, her taste is flawless—we found a stunning, affordable kitchen because of her. She even stayed to tidy up once the dust settled.
When it was done, we hosted a small dinner—both families invited. My mother-in-law admired the walls, the layout, the clever storage. I couldn’t resist: *”Mum chose most of it. She’s got an eye like a proper designer.”*
Then my father-in-law turned to Dad: *”Our sockets keep failing. Fancy taking a look sometime?”*
They talked all evening. Mum and my in-laws laughed over the decor. That’s when I knew—my parents hadn’t just fixed up a flat. They’d bridged a gap between our families.
The next morning, Tom found me. *”I’m sorry. I was wrong. Your parents are incredible. I’m… honestly ashamed. I won’t compare them again.”*
He kissed my forehead. *”Money isn’t what matters. It’s who’s there for you, who *wants* to help. I get that now.”*
We’ve never argued about it since. Because love and effort can’t be measured in pounds. And my parents proved that even with empty pockets, you can give more than anyone.
And you know what? I’m proud of them. And of myself—for standing my ground.
