My Husband Saves Everyone Except His Own Family
My name is Evelyn, and I have been married for six years now. My husband, Albert, is a kind-hearted man—hardworking, generous, and skilled with his hands. And all would be well, if only that kindness weren’t scattered in pieces to every relative but his own wife and child.
Albert comes from a large family—his mother, a brother, two aunts, a handful of cousins, even distant relations—and for every one of them, there always seems to be some urgent problem only he can solve. Not next week, not on the weekend, but immediately. In the dead of night. On the very day of our anniversary, or when our son is burning with fever.
Before we married, I knew he was close to his family, but the true extent of his devotion only became clear after we exchanged vows and moved to his hometown. We inherited a modest flat from his grandmother—nothing grand, but it was ours. His relatives had promised to help him find work, and without hesitation, I agreed to the move. A few months later, we had our wedding.
At first, I dismissed his constant running about—helping here, driving there—as part of the wedding preparations or settling in. But it only grew worse. Albert would spend half the day digging his mother’s garden, then drive fifteen miles to help his brother patch a leaky roof, and finally, well past midnight, ferry an uncle to the chemist. He’d collapse into bed at dawn, muttering about exhaustion, and I’d try to ease his burden—breakfast in bed, a quiet house, a moment’s peace. But the moment he caught his breath—another call. And off he’d dash again.
I bit my tongue. Endured it. Hoped it would pass. That he’d realize—he had a family now, a home, responsibilities that needed him too. But no. All his energy poured outward. Meanwhile, I juggled the cleaning, the repairs, choosing furniture, tending to every household crisis. I hung the wallpaper myself. Shifted the furniture alone. When the washing machine broke, it was a tradesman I called—not Albert. He never had time.
I didn’t shout. I spoke calmly. Reminded him that I was his wife, not some flatmate. He’d nod, kiss my hands, beg for understanding—near tears, insisting he couldn’t bring himself to refuse them.
When I fell pregnant, I thought—now, surely, things would change. I mattered to him at last. He carried my bags, cooked for me, drove me to the midwife. We grew close, truly close. But a month later—back to the old ways. Once the morning sickness faded, it was his aunt calling, his brother needing help, his mother’s leaky tap that only Albert could fix.
“Just helping them out now,” he’d say. “When we need it, they’ll return the favour.”
But in all these years, not one of them ever has. When our son was born, Albert stayed close for the first few weeks. Then he vanished again. I woke alone, slept alone, pushed the pram through the park alone—while he was off at his uncle’s building site, fetching shopping for his aunt, moving furniture for his sister. They rang at all hours, and he always went. When our boiler broke, his cousin the plumber was suddenly “too busy”—I paid a stranger to fix it.
And the cruelest part? At family gatherings, they’d all sing his praises—”What a man! Heart of gold! Always there when you need him!” And I’d sit there, forcing a smile, knowing they saw a hero—while I lived with a man who had nothing left to give me.
I tried talking to him. He’d wave me off—
“You’ve got everything you need. What more do you want?”
What I want is simple. A husband who comes home. Who watches his son grow. Who treats his own family with the same urgency as theirs. Who doesn’t make me feel like an afterthought in his life.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just a shadow—a woman who sets his dinner on the table and watches silently as he rushes off to another rescue. And I suppose, for him, that’s enough.
For me—it isn’t.
