My Younger Brother Chose to Move In With His Mother-in-Law—None of Us Understand Why He Did It… My younger brother got married shockingly early—at just 18. It felt like he was desperate to prove he could be independent. From the day he was born, I looked after him; my own childhood ended the moment he came home from the hospital. As he grew up, got married, and moved out, his life changed—sadly, not for the better. His wife, whom he also married very young, had a forceful and rather unpleasant personality. We didn’t take to her from the start. She lacked tact and good manners, and her appearance left nothing to be admired. I couldn’t understand what my brother saw in her. They moved into a flat near ours, right by her mother’s house. Her father was quiet and a bit odd; he rarely spoke, usually just nodded. Her mother liked being in charge, barking out orders everyone seemed compelled to obey. She constantly criticised and condemned my brother, and his wife was perpetually dissatisfied with him too. The way they treated my brother infuriated me. I tried to talk to him about it, but he insisted everything was fine, that his wife loved him and they were happy. But over time, I noticed my brother changing. He became like his father-in-law, almost never giving his opinion—just nodding occasionally. But eventually, my brother’s patience wore out; he simply couldn’t take it anymore. One day, he packed up and left without a word. I’d never seen anything like it—my brother in such a state… He deeply regretted marrying so young. Everyone has their breaking point, and when you reach yours, you might just walk away from a situation that’s become unbearable.

Author Walton MerrittReading 3 minViews 2

My younger brother made the baffling decision to live with his mother-in-law, and to this day, I still cant quite grasp why he chose to do that

He got married when he was just eighteenfar too young, if you ask me. It was as though he was in a race to stake his claim on independence.

Ever since the day he was born, Id always looked after him, my own childhood feeling like it had ended when he came home from hospital. As the years passed, he grew up, got married, and moved out. His life did change drastically, but sadly, it was not for the better.

His wife, Charlotte, whom he married at the same tender age, had a rather forceful personality that wasnt easy to warm to. From the very first time we met her, none of us took to her. She lacked any sense of tact or courtesy, and to be honest, she wasnt much to look at either. I could never quite understand what my brother saw in her. They ended up moving into a flat near us, at Charlottes mothers house. Her father was a quiet, rather awkward sort who hardly ever spokea nod here and there was all youd get out of him most days. Her mother, on the other hand, was a real battleaxe who thrived on controlling those around her, dishing out orders that everyone felt compelled to obey. She was forever criticising my brother and quick to pass judgement, while Charlotte herself seemed perpetually dissatisfied with him.

It made my blood boil to see how they treated him. I tried to speak with him about it, but he always maintained that everything was perfectly finethat Charlotte loved him, and he was happy with his lot. Still, as time wore on, I noticed a change in him. He started to resemble his father-in-law; speaking less and less, responding mostly with a silent nod. But eventually, his patience snapped. He simply couldnt take any more. One day, without warning, he packed his belongings and left without saying a word.

Ive never seen him in such a state beforeit was heartbreaking. He expressed deep regret over marrying so young.

Its painfully clear to me now that everyone has their breaking point. And when you reach that limit, sometimes the only thing left is to quietly walk away from a situation thats become unbearable.

If theres one thing Ive learned from all this, its that no matter how much you want things to work out for those you care about, you cant live their lives for themand you cant force someone to find happiness where it simply doesnt exist.

I’m 46, and if you looked at my life from the outside, you’d probably say everything is fine. I married young—at 24—to a hardworking, responsible Englishman. I had two children in quick succession—at 26 and 28. I left university because the schedules didn’t fit, the kids were small, and I thought “there’s time for all that later.” There were never any big dramas or rows. Everything went the way it was “meant to.” For years, my routine never changed. I’d wake before everyone, make breakfast, leave the house tidy, and head off to work. I’d come back in time to handle the chores, cook, wash, tidy up. Weekends were all about family gatherings, birthday parties, endless obligations. I was always there; I always took care of things. If something was missing, I fixed it. If anyone needed anything, I was always there. It never occurred to me to ask if I wanted something else. My husband has never been a bad person. We’d have dinner, watch TV, and head to bed. He wasn’t especially affectionate, but he wasn’t unkind either. He never asked for much, but he didn’t complain. Our conversations were about bills, the children, jobs to do. Then, on an ordinary Tuesday evening, I sat quietly in the living room and realised I had nothing to do—not because everything was perfect, but because, in that moment, nobody needed me. I looked around and understood that for years I’d kept this household running, but now I had no idea what to do with myself inside it. That day, I opened a drawer of old documents and found diplomas, unfinished courses, ideas scribbled in notebooks, projects put aside “for later.” I looked at photos from when I was young—before I was a wife, before I was a mother, before I became the one who made everything right. I didn’t feel nostalgic. I felt something worse: I realised I’d achieved everything without ever asking if it was what I truly wanted. I started to notice things I used to accept as normal: That nobody asks how I am. That even when I come home exhausted, it’s still me who sorts everything out. If my husband says he doesn’t fancy a family gathering, that’s fine, but if I’m reluctant, it’s still expected I’ll go. My opinion exists, but it doesn’t carry weight. There were no arguments or shouting matches, but there was never any real space for me. One evening at dinner, I mentioned I wanted to restart my education or try something different. My husband looked at me, surprised, and said, “But why now?” He didn’t mean any harm. He just didn’t understand why something that had always worked should change. The children were silent. There was no argument. Nobody forbade me from anything. Yet I realised that my role was so clearly defined that stepping outside it was uncomfortable. I’m still married. I haven’t left, I haven’t packed my bags, I haven’t made any dramatic decisions. But I’ve stopped pretending. I know that for more than twenty years, I’ve kept a family together in a structure where I was essential, but never the main character. How Do You Rebuild Yourself After Living a Life Where You’re Needed—But Never the Main Character?

I’m 41 and the house I live in once belonged to my grandparents. After they passed, my mum stayed here, and when she was gone, the home was left in my name. It’s always been a quiet, tidy, and peaceful place. I work all day and come home alone. Never did I imagine that all of this could be turned upside down by a decision I made “just to help someone.” Two years ago, a distant cousin rang me in tears. She was splitting up, had a little boy, and nowhere else to go. She asked if she could stay with me “just for a few months” until she got on her feet. I agreed—she was family, and I thought it wouldn’t really affect me. At first, it was fine—she took one room, chipped in a bit towards bills, headed out early for work. Her son stayed with a neighbour during the day. Everything was OK. After three months she quit her job, saying it was temporary and that she was looking for something better. She started staying home all day. The little boy didn’t go to the neighbour anymore—he was always here. The house began to change: toys everywhere, noise, unexpected guests. I’d come home exhausted only to find strangers sitting in my living room. When I asked her to give me a heads-up, she said I was overreacting and that “this is her home too, now.” Soon she stopped contributing to bills—first, she said, she couldn’t manage, then she’d “catch up later.” I paid for everything: bills, food, repairs. One day I came back to find she’d rearranged all the furniture to make it “cosier”—without asking. When I protested, she was offended and said I was cold and didn’t know what it meant to live as a family. It got even more tense when she started inviting her ex round—the very man she claimed she was escaping. He’d come by in the evening, stay the night, use the bathroom, eat our food. One day I caught him coming out of my room, having “just grabbed his jacket” without asking. That’s when I said things couldn’t go on like this—there had to be boundaries. She started crying, shouting, reminding me I took her in when she had nowhere to go. Six months ago, I tried to set a deadline for her to move out. She said she couldn’t—she had no money, her son was at school nearby, and how could I throw her out? Now I feel trapped. My home isn’t mine any more. I sneak in quietly so I don’t wake the child, eat dinner in my room to avoid arguments, and spend more time outside than in. I still live here, but it no longer feels like home. She acts like she owns the place—I pay for everything, yet I’m called selfish if I ask for some order. I really need advice.