**Diary Entry**
When my mother-in-law found out we were planning to buy a flat, she pulled my husband aside for a chat. What happened next left me absolutely stunned.
My husband and I had been saving for our own place for years. I worked for a steady international firm, earning twice as much as him, but we shared everything equally—joint finances, shared goals. The dream of owning a home kept us united, or so I thought—until his family got involved.
My husband has four sisters. In their eyes, a man isn’t just a brother—he’s the family’s backbone, their personal bank, the go-to solver of every problem. He’d been helping them since his teens—paying tuition, buying phones, “lending” money that never came back. I stayed quiet, biting my tongue. Family helps family, after all. Even I sent money to my parents now and then. But because of all these “loans,” our path to a home stretched three extra years.
When we finally saved enough, I took charge of house-hunting while he focused on work. I didn’t mind—I wanted to find the perfect place for us both.
Then his mother invited us to dinner for his youngest sister’s graduation. Mid-meal, she smirked and said, “Soon my boy will have his own place. I’m tired of visiting him everywhere else.”
Proudly, my husband announced we were already looking—and that I was handling it.
Her smile vanished. She glared at me, voice icy. “That’s all well and good, but you should’ve consulted *me*, son. I’ve lived longer—I know better. You’d trust your wife with something this important?”
His eldest sister chimed in: “She’s selfish. Never helped any of us. A flat matters more to her than family.”
I nearly choked on my food. I bit my tongue, too shocked to speak. Then his mother yanked him away—“We need to talk.”
At the table, his middle sister smirked. “We’re moving in with him. We’ll have our own room.”
My pulse pounded in my temples. I walked out without a word. We left by taxi.
That night, I tried talking to him. He sat silent, then finally said, “We should divorce.”
“*What?*”
“It’s for the best. I have to think of my family… my *real* family.”
He moved out the next day. Two weeks later, he demanded “his half” of our savings. I transferred it—no scenes, no begging, just finality.
Months later, I bought a flat. In my name. With my money. It was hard, every pound counted, but I did it. He, meanwhile, moved back with his mother. His sisters bled him dry—borrowing, begging, guilt-tripping—until his dream of a home was gone.
But that’s not my story anymore. My story is the lesson: A man who won’t separate from his family will never truly be yours. If he lets others control your future, you were never a team. And no amount of money or compromise will save a marriage where you’re the only one building while the rest tear it down.
