When my mother-in-law discovered we were planning to buy a flat, she took my husband aside for a talk. What happened next left me utterly stunned.
My husband and I had saved for years to purchase our own home. I worked for a steady international firm, earning twice as much as he did, but in our marriage, everything was fair—shared finances, shared dreams. The idea of owning a place together united us, and it seemed nothing could stand in our way. Until his family found out.
My husband had four sisters. In their eyes, a man wasn’t just a brother—he was their pillar, their provider, the one who solved every problem. Since his youth, he’d helped each of them—paying for tuition, buying a new phone, or just lending money “until payday,” though it was never repaid. I saw it all, bit my tongue, and endured. Family was family, after all. I even sent money to my own parents now and then. But because of these “favours,” our path to a home stretched nearly three years longer than it should have.
At last, when we’d saved enough, we began house-hunting. I took charge—he was swamped at work, coming home late each evening. I didn’t mind; in fact, I was glad to handle it, to find the best place for us both.
One day, his mother invited us to celebrate—the youngest sister had finished school. We went, shared a meal, and as the evening wore on, my mother-in-law suddenly remarked, “Soon, I hope, my boy will move into his own place. Tiring, visiting all his sisters.”
Then my husband proudly announced we were already looking, and that I was handling the search.
Her smile vanished instantly. She fixed me with a hard stare, her voice like ice. “That’s well and good… but you should’ve asked me first, son. I’ve lived longer—I know better. Did you just leave it to your wife without a thought?”
The eldest sister chimed in: “Exactly. That wife of yours is selfish—only thinks of herself. Not a penny to help any of us. A flat matters more than family to her!”
I nearly choked on my food at the sheer gall. I wanted to snap back—tell them if they needed money, they could work for it. But I held my tongue, kept eating in silence, too shocked to engage.
Then my mother-in-law rose, grabbed my husband’s arm, and pulled him into the kitchen. “We need to talk,” she tossed over her shoulder. As they left, the middle sister smirked and said, “We’ll be living in his new place. There’s a room for us.”
My pulse roared in my ears. Without a word, I stood and walked to the hall. I didn’t bother gathering my things—we left in a cab.
That evening, I tried to talk to him, but he was distant. Silent. Then, abruptly, he said, “We should divorce.”
“What?”
“It’s for the best. I have to think of my family… my real family.”
The next day, he packed his bags and left. Two weeks later, he rang, demanding his “half” of our savings. I transferred it—no scene, no begging, no tears. Just an end.
Months later, I bought a flat—in my name, with my money. It was hard, every pound counted, but I managed. He, as I later heard, moved back in with his mother. His sisters, of course, took his “share”—one borrowed, another begged, the third just claimed it. His dream of a home vanished entirely.
But that’s no longer my tale. Mine is a lesson. That if a man can’t break free from his family, he’ll never truly be yours. That if he lets others dictate your life together, it’s no partnership at all. And no money, no compromise, can save a marriage where you’re the only one building while the rest tear it down.
