**The Family I Never Had**
Jenny trudged home after a gruelling day at work and instantly knew—there were guests. A foreign scent lingered in the flat, and muffled voices drifted from the kitchen, accompanied by the quiet murmur of the telly. She sighed. Mother-in-law again. Vera Stephens. Always dropping by unannounced, as if this were her own home. Jenny shrugged off her coat, toed off her shoes, and was about to step into the kitchen when she froze—her name, sharp and venomous, cut through the air.
“Rom, love, think carefully about who you’ve tied yourself to. She’s… not right for you. Anyone can see that.”
Jenny’s hand clenched the door handle. Her chest tightened. Vera was discussing her—judging, picking her apart like fruit at the market. And Roman… stayed silent. No defence.
She remembered how she’d once believed his family was a gift. Warm, affectionate, nothing like her own. Back home, every gathering dissolved into snide remarks and grievances. No help, just endless debates over who owed whom.
Jenny grew up where support was a foreign concept. Her mother would sneer, “Asking for help with the house? Be grateful they’re not demanding free labour.” When she’d needed babysitting as a child, her sister always conveniently fell ill.
Roman’s family felt like a performance at first—too bright, too kind. She’d waited for the mask to slip, for the inevitable, “What on earth do you see in her, Rom?” But it never came. Not the first time, not the hundredth. She started to believe. Yet doubt gnawed at her: *I don’t belong. I’m an outsider.*
Even her own mother had smiled sweetly at Roman—only to mutter after he left, “Scrawny thing. And dreadfully dull.” Jenny seethed but gave up arguing. Then one day, she overheard Vera tell Roman, “Jenny’s a good one. Don’t let her go. You’re lucky.” Those words shattered her. Her own mother had never spoken like that.
When Roman spent their only day off helping his dad build a shed, Jenny fumed. “He asked,” Roman shrugged. “He’d do the same for me.” True enough—when their lights went out, his father came straight from work and fixed everything. No complaints. Just, “That’s what family does.”
Jenny struggled to unlearn a lifetime of *every man for himself*. Here, help wasn’t a burden—it was love in action.
They married. His family pitched in—money, time. Hers handed over a token sum and said, “You’re adults—sort yourselves out.” It stung.
Then came Italy. They’d nearly saved enough when disaster struck—Roman’s sister crashed her car. No insurance payout. With a toddler and a job requiring travel, she was stranded.
“We’ll chip in,” Roman said. “Get her something cheap.”
“Our holiday?” Jenny whispered.
“It can wait.”
She bit back her fury. She wanted Italy, the sea, peace—just once. But she nodded.
Her mother erupted: “Have you lost your mind? You’re buying *her* a car?! It’s her problem!” Jenny stayed silent. Angry, yes—but she knew the rules here. *You help. If you want to be family, you play the part.*
Roman’s sister tearfully promised repayment. His family waved it off—”Don’t be daft.” Jenny nodded, though she didn’t quite understand.
Time passed. They made it to Italy, then France, Spain. Then—a pregnancy. Little Max arrived.
At his first birthday, the diagnosis came. The treatment was costly, the NHS coverage partial. They put their flat up for sale—still not enough.
Jenny begged her mother. The reply was swift: “We’re not selling. We need space. Ask his lot for help.”
Then Roman burst in, shouting—”They’ve agreed! Sis is moving in with Dad—selling her place, even the holiday home. We’re saving Max!”
Jenny couldn’t breathe. Dazed, she called his sister, stammering thanks. The reply? “We’re family. When it’s life or death, there’s no choice.”
Max recovered. They lived in a rented flat—and were happy.
Her mother was aghast: “Gave up their *home*? For a nephew? Saints, the lot of you!”
“I’m happy, Mum. Because I finally have a real family. Not like ours. No spite, no barbs. Just love—the kind that *does*.”
Her mother scoffed. Jenny didn’t care.
Years later, shame still prickled—for that first resentment, for begrudging the car. But she’d learned: in a real family, kindness doesn’t end. It circles back. When your turn comes, you give. No grudges. No terms.
Because having people who won’t betray you—that’s worth more than money. More than flats. Even more than Italy.
