When my mother-in-law discovered we intended to buy a flat, she took her son aside for a word. What followed left me utterly stunned.
For years, my husband and I had scrimped and saved for a home of our own. I worked for a steady international firm, earning twice his wage, yet we shared everything—joint finances, shared dreams. The thought of owning a place bound us together, and it seemed nothing could stand in our way. Until his family found out.
My husband had four sisters. In that household, a man wasn’t just a brother—he was the provider, the fixer, the answer to every problem. From his youth, he’d helped each of them—paying for schooling, buying the latest mobile, or simply “lending” money until payday, though none was ever repaid. I saw it all, held my tongue, bore it. Family was family, after all. Even I sent money to my own parents now and then. But these endless handouts stretched our path to a home by nearly three years.
At last, when we’d saved enough, we began house-hunting. I took the lead—his work kept him late, and I was glad to arrange things, to find the best option for us both.
One evening, his mother invited us to celebrate her youngest daughter finishing school. We dined together, and amid the chatter, my mother-in-law suddenly remarked,
“Soon, I hope, my boy will move into his own place… I grow weary of visiting all of you.”
Proudly, my husband revealed we were already looking—and that I was handling the search.
The shift in her expression was instant. Her smile vanished. She fixed me with a cold stare and said, sharply,
“That’s all well and good… but you ought to consult me, son. I’ve lived longer—I know better. Have you left such a matter to your wife on a whim?”
His eldest sister chimed in:
“Quite right. That wife of yours is selfish. Thinks only of herself. Hasn’t spared a penny for any of us. A flat matters more than family!”
I nearly choked on my food. Every retort burned on my tongue—if they needed money so badly, let them earn it. But I held back, eating in silence, too shocked to engage. I hadn’t expected such a betrayal over supper.
Then my mother-in-law stood, seized her son’s wrist, and marched him to the kitchen. “We need to talk,” she tossed over her shoulder. While they were gone, his middle sister announced,
“Me and our brother will live in his new flat. We’ll have our own room.”
My pulse roared in my ears. Without a word, I rose and headed for the hall. There was no need to pack—we left by cab.
At home, I tried to reason with him. But he was distant, silent, before finally saying,
“We should divorce.”
“What?”
“It’s for the best. I must think of my family… my real family.”
The next day, he gathered his things and left. A fortnight later, he rang, demanding his “half” of our savings. I sent it—no theatrics, no begging, no tears. Just an end.
Months later, I bought my own flat. In my name. With my money. Difficult? Certainly. Every pound counted, and sacrifices were made—but I managed. He, I later heard, moved back in with his mother. His sisters, of course, swiftly claimed his “share”—one borrowed it, another begged it, a third wheedled it away. Not a scrap remained of his dream.
But that’s no longer my tale. Mine is the lesson: If a man cannot stand apart from his family, he will never truly be yours. If he lets others steer your shared life, it was never a partnership. And no sum of money, no compromise, can save a union where you build, while the rest tear down.
