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Living with a Man Who Claims Money Is “Low Energy”: How My Supportive Relationship Turned into Sponsoring a Spiritual Intern in My Own Home and Left Me Wondering If I’m a Partner or His Enlightenment Benefactor

I live with a man who insists that money has low energy. Weve been together nearly two years, and until

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“No One Chased Them Away,” We Told Both Sides—”They Simply Didn’t Want to Stay! Let Them Come Over! We’ll Be Glad to See Them”—Or How an English Shepherd Saved a Young Couple’s Peace from Invasive Relatives, Persistent Doorbells, and Endless Family Drama

No one asked them to leave, I would say, whenever Mum or Sandra called to find out what happened.

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When I Got Off the Bus, I Saw My Mum Sitting on the Pavement Begging. My Husband and I Were Stunned. No One Knew About This. I’m 43, and my mum is 67. We live in the same city, but on opposite sides. Like many elderly people, my mum needs constant supervision, but she refuses to move in with me for one reason—she has four cats and three dogs in her flat. She also feeds every stray animal in the neighbourhood. Every penny I give her goes on medicine or animal food. I bring her groceries myself, because I know she won’t spend any money on food or medicine for herself. Recently, my husband and I visited a friend at his house and decided to leave our car at his and take the bus home. Imagine my shock when I got off the bus and saw my mum sitting on the pavement, begging for money. I didn’t know what to think. My husband was stunned too. He knew I took money for Mum from our family budget. Naturally, he wondered where the money was really going. It turned out my mum was collecting money for her cats and dogs—for their food and vaccines. All this sounds tragic, but what would you think if you saw your own mother like this? What would family, friends, and neighbours think? Of course, they’d believe that I, such a worthless daughter, had abandoned my mum and left her to perish. Now I go looking for my mum on every street. I know she hasn’t stopped, even though I shouted at her—she’s just gotten better at hiding from me.

When I stepped off the double-decker, the cobblestones seemed to waver like waves and there, amidst the

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“Hello… Is that you, Vasya? – No, this is Olena… – Olena? Who are you? – Excuse me, but who are you? I’m Vasyl’s girlfriend. Is there something you wanted?… Your husband isn’t here, he’s held up at work… My head started spinning, I noticed drops of red on the floor. A sharp pain gripped my stomach—I could barely move… I knew the baby was about to arrive. My husband Vasyl has spent the last five years working abroad—first driving lorries in Germany, then working in renovations in Poland. He left for money’s sake. We have two sons and always wanted to give them the best future. We realised we’d get nowhere if we stayed in England. You know, life there started looking up for my husband. Each month he’d send us food parcels—canned goods, pasta, oil, sweets—and deposit money in my account so I could put it aside and earn some interest. We managed to save enough to buy our elder son a flat. It seemed everything was perfect. But a few months ago, something felt off in my body. I thought it was the menopause, but the signs pointed elsewhere—I gained weight, was constantly sleepy and hungry, and my moods kept swinging. All the online advice screamed ‘pregnant.’ Pregnant at 45? I doubted it, until two bright lines appeared on the test stick. I didn’t want to tell my sons or daughters-in-law about the baby. What for? So they could laugh and call me mad for having a child at my age? I decided to hide the pregnancy—luckily, with winter approaching, big, warm coats disguised my growing belly. I didn’t want to have this baby. Some might say I’ve no faith, but I’m 45, no longer young. I already have sons and grandchildren—I want to devote myself to them, not nappies. Plus, we can’t afford another child—Vasyl would have to go abroad again, but I can’t cope without him. Doctors said it was too late and risky for an operation—I might not survive. So I convinced myself all would be well. Maybe, I thought, Vasyl would be delighted about the new baby. I decided to ring him on Skype and share my news, only turning on the mic, not the camera. “Hello, Vasyl…” “This isn’t Vasyl. It’s Olena.” “Olena? Who are you?” “Excuse me, who are you? I’m Vasyl’s girlfriend. Did you want something? Your husband isn’t here, he’s still at work.” I hung up and burst into tears. Turns out, a man can betray you anywhere, with anyone. I wanted to file for divorce and throw out all his things. But in my heart, I hoped my husband would return when he heard about the baby. He was due home in February for the boys’ birthdays and had arranged time off. I even dreamt we’d walk in the park, Vasyl holding our daughter’s hand and me holding the other. He arrived on Valentine’s Day. I prepared a romantic dinner, lit candles, played music—created a cosy atmosphere. “Vasyl, I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m pregnant. They say it’s a girl.” “You wretch!” my husband shouted. He turned red with rage, flipped the plates onto the floor, pounded on the table. “So while I’m working like a horse, you’re sleeping with other men? Now you want to saddle me with some bastard?” “Vasyl, let me explain…” “Get away, I don’t want to see you!” He shoved me and my stomach struck the table’s edge. I collapsed. Vasyl stormed out, grabbed his bag, and slammed the door. My head spun, I saw red droplets on the floor. My stomach cramped with pain, and I could barely call for an ambulance. The baby was coming. When the paramedics arrived, I was already holding our daughter. She lay quietly in my arms, not crying, fast asleep. “So, Mum, are you coming with us?” “No. Take the baby. I don’t want her.” “What do you mean?” “I said, take her! This child has destroyed my family! Maybe someone will love her, but it won’t be me. Please, just take her away—I don’t want to see her.” With no regrets, I handed the baby to the medic. They checked me over—no tears, a smooth delivery. Once the ambulance left, I cleaned the house, showered, and went to bed. None of my children know I gave my daughter away. Every day I go to church and pray she’ll grow up healthy and find a loving family, because I know I can’t cope. I don’t want the burdens of motherhood again. I only wish for Vasyl to return home, but he’s back in Germany and only speaks to our sons. Call me mad if you want, but I’m choosing my husband over my child. God will judge me.

11 February I picked up the phone, hands trembling, dialling Toms mobile. Hello Tom It isnt Tom.

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Wow, Dad, what a welcome! Why bother with a spa retreat when home is practically ‘all inclusive’? When James handed Eva the keys to his flat, she realised: victory was hers. Not even Leonardo DiCaprio waited for his Oscar like Eva waited for her James—complete with her very own nest. Desperate and thirty-five, Eva found herself throwing sympathetic glances at stray cats and scoping out craft shop windows more often. Then appeared James—single, having spent his youth on his career, healthy eating, the gym, and other nonsense like soul searching, and childless to boot. Eva had been wishing for this since she was twenty, and somewhere up above, they finally understood she wasn’t joking. “My last business trip of the year, and after that I’m all yours,” James said, handing over the treasured keys. “Just don’t be startled by my bachelor’s den—I only come home to sleep,” he added, hurrying off to another time zone for the weekend. Eva grabbed her toothbrush, her face cream, and set off to check out the bachelor pad. The problems started right at the door. James had warned the lock sometimes stuck, but Eva hadn’t thought it was this bad. She spent forty minutes storming the entrance: pushing, pulling, carefully inserting the key—trying every trick her schoolyard mates taught her back in the day. All the noise opened a neighbour’s door. “Why are you trying to break into someone else’s flat?” a concerned woman asked. “I’m not! I’ve got the keys!” snapped Eva, wiping sweat from her brow. “And you are? I’ve never seen you before.” “I’m his girlfriend!” Eva declared, hands on hips, but only a crack in the door met her challenge. “You?” the neighbour replied, surprised. “Yes, me. Is that a problem?” “No, it’s just… well, he’s never had anyone over (which made Eva love James even more). And then suddenly, you…” “What do you mean, ‘you’?” Eva frowned. “None of my business, sorry,” the neighbour said, closing her door. Determined, Eva jammed the key in with all her heart, nearly twisting the whole doorframe. The door finally opened. James’s entire world stood revealed, and Eva’s soul froze. Of course, single men are often a bit ascetic, but this was a true monk’s cell. “Poor thing, you’ve either forgotten or never known true comfort,” Eva whispered, surveying the humble abode she’d now be frequenting. At least the neighbour hadn’t lied—a woman’s touch had never graced these walls, floors, or kitchen. Eva was first. Unable to resist, Eva dashed to the nearest shop for a pretty shower curtain and bathmat, oven mitts, and kitchen towels. Naturally, this led to more purchases… To the curtain and mat joined handmade soap, air fresheners, practical containers for cosmetics. “Adding little touches to his place isn’t overstepping,” Eva assured herself, as a second trolley joined the first. The lock gave up resisting—no longer even functioning properly, like a hockey goalie without his mask. Realising what she’d done, Eva worked until midnight with kitchen knives to remove the old lock, and the next morning dashed out for a replacement. Of course, the knives needed replacing too. Then forks, spoons, a new tablecloth, chopping boards, coasters—soon, curtains were next. At Sunday lunchtime, James rang: the trip was extended by two days. “I’ll be thrilled if you make my flat a bit warmer and cozier,” he said, grinning as Eva confessed to a few liberties with his decor. By then, coziness was arriving by the truckload, all sorted and filed, years’ worth tucked away in Eva finally unleashed. By the time James returned, only a lone spider by the vent remained from the old place. Eva almost chased it off, but seeing its startled eight eyes, decided it was better left as a symbol of respecting another’s property. James’s place now looked like he’d been happily married for eight years, got disillusioned, and found happiness again regardless. Eva hadn’t just taken over the apartment, but made sure everyone in the building knew she was the new lady of the house. The lack of a ring was purely technical. Neighbors were skeptical at first, but then just shrugged: “Whatever you say, it’s your business.” *** On James’s homecoming, Eva prepared a true home-cooked meal, dressed herself in dazzling attire, placed air fresheners at every corner, dimmed the shiny new lights, and began to wait. James was running late. When Eva felt her festive outfit digging painfully into the spots she’d spent months toning at the gym, someone started turning the new lock. “It’s a brand new lock, just push—it’s not locked!” Eva called out, a little embarrassed but with sultry intent. She feared no judgement—she’d done a brilliant job decorating, surely she’d be forgiven anything. Just then, Eva got a text from James: “Where are you? I’m home. The flat looks exactly the same. My mates were sure you’d cover everything in cosmetics.” Truth be told, Eva saw the message much later. At that moment, five complete strangers entered the flat: two young men, two school-aged kids, and an elderly gentleman, who straightened at the sight of Eva and smoothed what hairs he had left. “Blimey, Dad, what a reception! Why that spa, when home’s got all the trimmings?” said one young man, earning a swift slap from his wife for staring. Eva stood in the hallway with two full glasses, rooted to the spot. She wanted to scream, but was paralyzed. Somewhere in the corner, the spider chuckled. “Sorry, who are you?” Eva squeaked. “The owner, love. And you—here for the clinic visit, a dressing change? I said I could manage, you know,” replied the old man, eyeing Eva’s nurse’s uniform. “Err… Adam, your place is really cozy now,” the young wife peered in. “Not like the tomb you had before. And you, dear—what’s your name? Isn’t Adam a bit old for you? Though he’s respectable, has his own place…” “E-E-Eva…” “Well, Adam, must say you pick your people well!” Judging by his twinkle, Adam thought it a fine turn of events. “But where’s James?” Eva whispered, nervously draining both glasses. To be continued “I’m James!” shouted the eight-year-old boy. “Easy, son, not yet,” his mother sent him and the other child out to the car. “S-s-sorry, I seem to have the wrong flat,” Eva managed, recalling the struggle with the lock. “Is this Lilac Avenue, eighteen, flat twenty-six?” “No, it’s Beech Street, eighteen,” Adam replied, rubbing his hands together, ready to unwrap his unexpected gift. “Right,” Eva sighed tragically, “my mistake. Make yourselves at home; I need to make a call.” She grabbed her phone and darted to the bathroom, barricading herself, wrapping up in a towel. There she finally read James’s SMS. “James, I’ll be right there, just popped to the shop,” Eva texted. “No worries, I’ll wait. Grab a bottle of red if you can,” James sent. Eva intended to bring some red, but more in spirit. Tucking the mat and shower curtain under her arm, she waited until the strangers headed for the kitchen, then dashed out. She hastily packed up, and ran from the flat. *** “I’ll explain later,” Eva promised James on arrival, brushing past him in a daze. She went straight to the bathroom to swap the curtain and mat, then crashed on the sofa, sleeping off the stress—and the red—until morning. When she woke, a stranger waited for an explanation. “Excuse me, what’s this address?” “Butterfield, eighteen.”

Blimey, Dad, talk about a welcome party. And why bother with a spa weekend when youve got all-inclusive

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What About the Flat? You Promised Me! You’re Ruining My Life!

What about the flat? You promised me! Youre ruining my life! My husband and I were over the moon when

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For about a year, my son had been living with Kate, but we’d never met her parents—and that struck me as odd, so I decided to look into it I’ve always tried to raise my son to respect women above all—his grandmother, his mother, his wife, his daughter. In my view, that’s the best trait a man can have: respect for women. My husband and I gave our son an excellent upbringing and education, equipping him with everything he needs to navigate life with ease. We didn’t want to give him too many handouts, but we did buy him a two-bedroom flat. He worked to support himself, but affording his own place was out of reach. We didn’t hand over the flat right away—in fact, we didn’t even tell him about the purchase. Why? Our son had moved in with his girlfriend. For about a year, he had been living with Kate, but we had never met her parents, which I found peculiar. Later, I discovered that Kate’s mother was a former neighbour of a friend of mine, who told me something that made me uneasy. Apparently, Kate’s mother had thrown her husband out when he started earning less, and the absurdity only escalated from there. She began seeing a married but wealthy man. Kate’s grandmother, just like her daughter, had also had a relationship with a married man. She even used to force both her daughter and granddaughter to help out at his country cottage. That’s why my son had already found himself tangled in more than one affair with his future mother-in-law. But what worries me most in this story is how both Kate’s mother and grandmother are turning her against her father. The girl clearly loves her father, but because of these two women, their relationship is at risk. And to top it all off, Kate has decided to drop out of university because she believes a man should provide for the family. I do agree with that philosophy, and I’ve prepared my son for it, but heaven forbid they ever go through hard times. Where is the safety net? How will she support her husband if disaster strikes? By the way, I’ve re-registered the flat in my own name, because as the saying goes, I know I’ve raised a “deer”—a soft-hearted chap. Yes, anything acquired before marriage isn’t split after a divorce, but Kate is a clever woman and could easily see my “gentleman” out the door with only his socks.

It must be nearly a decade past now, but I still recall the uneasiness I felt when my son was living

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“I Couldn’t Leave Him, Mum,” Whispered Nick – The Story of Fourteen-Year-Old Nick, Misunderstood by All, Who Finds Purpose and Friendship by Saving an Injured Stray Dog Called Rusty

I couldnt leave him, Mum, whispered Michael. Do you understand? I just couldnt. Michael was fourteen

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— Needless to Say, This Is All My Fault! — My Boyfriend’s Sister Sobs, “I Never Imagined Anything Like This Could Happen! Now I Don’t Know What to Do Next or How to Save Face.” A Few Years Ago, My Boyfriend’s Sister Got Married. After the Wedding, the Newlyweds Decided to Live with the Husband’s Mum. His Parents Own a Spacious Three-Bedroom Flat and Only Have One Son. “You Can Have All but One Room—That’s Mine!” Declared the Mother-in-Law. “We’re All Well-Mannered People, So I’m Sure We’ll Get Along Just Fine.” “We Can Always Move Out!” The Husband Told His Wife. “There’s No Harm in Trying to Live with Mum. If it Doesn’t Work, We Can Always Rent Our Own Place…” And That’s Exactly What Happened, because Living Together Turned Out to Be Quite the Challenge. Both Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Tried, but Things Got Worse Every Day. Old Grievances Boiled Over, and Arguments Became More Frequent. “You Said If We Can’t Live Together, We’d Move Out!” The Wife Cried. “Well, Isn’t That a Bit Drastic?” The Mother-in-Law Smirked. “These Are Trivial Matters—No Reason to Pack Your Bags and Leave.” Exactly a Year After the Wedding, the Wife Became Pregnant and Gave Birth to a Healthy Baby Boy. The Grandma Quit Her Old Job Around the Same Time and Couldn’t Find Another, as No Employer Wanted Someone Nearing Retirement Age. That Meant Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Were Cooped Up Together 24/7—with Nowhere to Go—And the Tension Just Got Worse. The Husband Simply Shrugged and Listened to Complaints; He Was the Family’s Only Breadwinner. “We Can’t Leave My Mother on Her Own Now, She Has No Income. I Can’t Abandon Her, and There’s No Way I Can Afford Our Own Flat and Still Support Mum. Once She Finds a Job, We’ll Move Out!” But the Young Wife’s Patience Ran Out. She Packed Up Her Things and Her Son’s, and Moved Back in With Her Own Mum, Telling Her Husband She Wouldn’t Step Foot in His Mother’s House Again. If Family Mattered to Him, He’d Have to Sort Something Out. She Was So Sure He’d Rush to Get Their Family Back Together. But She Was Completely Wrong. Three Months Have Passed Since She Moved Back Home, and He Hasn’t Made the Slightest Effort to Bring Her Back. He Still Lives With His Mum, Communicates with His Wife and Child via Video Calls After Work, and Visits on Weekends at His Mother-in-Law’s House. He Now Gets Attention and Care from Both Women. Plus, Grandma Genuinely Pities Her Son, Now Left by His Angry Wife, and the Husband Doesn’t Even Need to Worry About Raising His Child. The Husband’s the Big Winner! And the Mother-in-Law Must Be Loving It—She Really Hasn’t Lost Anything! Meanwhile, the Young Wife Is Far From Happy. She Loves Her Husband Deeply, Even Though She Knows He Isn’t Acting Right. “What Did You Expect When You Left?” Her Husband Says, “You Can Come Back If You Want.” Chances Are, the Wife Has No Intentions of Leaving Her Mum’s and Renting a Flat—Understandably So, as She’s on Maternity Leave and Can’t Afford It. Is This Really the End of Their Family? What Do You Think—Does She Stand Any Chance of Returning to Her Mother-in-Law’s House and Saving Face Out of This Mess?

It goes without saying that this is all my fault! Jane sobs, her voice trembling with anguish.

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I Gave My Surname to Her Kids—Now I’m Legally Required to Support Them While She Lives Happily Ever After with Their Biological Dad Let Me Tell You How I Went From ‘Fun Guy’ to Official Bank of Two Children Who Only Message Me for Cinema Money and Ignore Me at Christmas It All Began Three Years Ago When I Met Marianne—An Amazing, Divorced Woman with Two Kids Aged 8 and 10. I Fell Head Over Heels. She Kept Telling Me: “The Kids Adore You!” Of Course They Did—I Took Them to Theme Parks Every Weekend. One Day, In One of Those Life-Changing Conversations, Marianne Said: — “It Breaks My Heart the Kids Don’t Share Their Dad’s Surname. He Never Officially Acknowledged Them.” In a Shining (Sarcastic) Moment, I Replied: — “Well… I Could Adopt Them. They Already Feel Like My Own.” You Know That Film Moment Where Time Stops and a Voiceover Says, “This Will End Badly”? I Didn’t Get That Warning. I Should Have. Marianne Burst into Happy Tears, the Kids Hugged Me—A Hero. A Foolish Hero, but Still. After Lawyers, Solicitors, and Judges, the Kids Became Sebastian Williams and Camilla Williams—WITH MY SURNAME. We Even Had a Little ‘Family Ceremony’ with Cake. Six Months Later. SIX. Marianne Says: — “We Need to Talk… I Don’t Know How to Say This, But… Mike’s Back.” — “Mike Who?” — “The Kids’ Biological Dad. He’s Changed. He Wants His Family Back.” I Was Speechless. — “What Are You Going To Do?” — “I’m Giving Him a Chance. For the Kids, You Understand?” Of Course, I Understood. Like Someone Was Shoving Me Out With a Neon Exit Sign. — “Marianne, I ADOPTED Them. They’re Legally My Children.” — “Yes, Yes… We’ll Sort That Later. Right Now the Kids Need Their Dad.” “We’ll Sort That Later”—Like It’s an Electricity Bill. My Solicitor Nearly Choked on His Coffee: — “You Signed Full Adoption?” — “Yes.” — “Then You’re Their Father—All the Legal Responsibilities: Child Support, School, Healthcare. Everything.” — “But I’m Not with Their Mum…” — “Doesn’t Matter. You’re Their Dad. That’s the Law.” So Here I Am—Paying Maintenance to Marianne, Who Now Happily Lives with Mike in MY Flat—Because “Children Need Stability and Shouldn’t Have to Move.” MY Flat. Paid By Me. But I Had to Leave Because “It Would Be Too Traumatic for the Kids.” The Craziest Part? Mike—the Phantom Dad Who Never Paid a Penny—Now Kicks a Ball in the Park and Is the Family Hero. And Me? I Get Monthly Emails from the Solicitor: “Child Support Payment: £XXX” With a Sad Emoji. Yeah, That Helps. Last Month Sebastian Messaged: — “Hi, Can You Send Some Extra? I Want New Trainers.” — “Can’t Mike Buy Them?” — “He Says You’re My Legal Dad. He’s Just ‘Dad by Heart.’” Dad by Heart. How Convenient. I’m the Dad by Direct Debit. Adoption Is Almost Impossible to Reverse. The Court Would Paint Me as the Villain Trying to ‘Abandon the Children.’ My Friends Have Stopped Pitying Me: — “Mate, When Did You Think This Was a Good Idea?” — “I Was in Love.” — “Being In Love Shouldn’t Turn Off Your Brain Completely.” He’s Right. Now Any Time I See Someone Dating a Single Mum or Dad, I Want to Shout: “DON’T SIGN ANYTHING! BE THE FUN UNCLE, THE PARTNER—JUST DON’T SIGN!” My Mum Just Said: “Love Made You Foolish,” And Gave Me a Hug That Hurt Even More. Yesterday Again: “Unexpected School Supply Costs—£XXX” Unexpected. Like School Isn’t Every Year. And Marianne Posts Pictures of Her “Happy Family”—The Kids, MY Surname, Next to the Dad Who Abandoned Them. The Best Bit? Camilla (At 10, Yes, She’s Got Instagram…) Wrote in Her Bio: “Daughter of Marianne & Mike ❤️” My Name? Nowhere. I’m Just the Anonymous Sponsor of Their Lives. So Here I Am—Single, £500 Down Each Month, with Two “Children” Who Message Only for Money, Knowing I Made the Biggest Mistake of My Life Out of Love. The Only Silver Lining? When People Ask If I Have Kids, I Can Say “Yes” and Share this Story Over Dinner. Everyone Laughs. Inside—I’m the Only One Crying. So—Have You Ever Signed Something ‘For Love’ and Paid the Price… Or Am I the Only ‘Genius’ Who Gifted Both a Surname and a Bank Account in One Special Offer?

I gave my surname to her children. Now Im bound to support them while she enjoys life with their biological father.