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 absolutely stunned me.
My husband and I had been saving for our own place for ages. I worked for a steady international company, earning twice what he did, but we always split everything fairly—shared budget, shared goals. The dream of owning our home kept us united, and for a while, nothing could shake us. Until his family got wind of it.
My husband has four sisters, and in their family, the only son isn’t just a brother—he’s the breadwinner, the problem-solver, the human ATM. Since he was young, he’d been bailing them out—paying for uni, buying phones, “lending” cash till payday (which never got paid back). I saw it all, bit my tongue, let it slide. Family helps family, right? I even sent money to my own parents sometimes. But those constant handouts stretched our savings for *three extra years* before we could finally afford our own place.
When we hit our goal, I took charge of house-hunting—he was swamped at work, coming home late. Honestly, I didn’t mind. I wanted to find the perfect spot for *us*.
Then one day, his mum invited us over for his youngest sister’s graduation dinner. We were halfway through the meal when she suddenly piped up with, *”Hope my boy’s moving into his own place soon—tired of visiting him everywhere else!”* Smug as you like. So my husband, proud as punch, announced we were already looking—and that *I* was handling it all.
The way her face dropped. The smile vanished, and she hit me with this icy stare before snapping, *”That’s lovely, son, but you should’ve consulted* me. *I’ve lived longer—I know better. You’re really leaving this to your wife?”*
Then his eldest sister chimed in: *”Exactly. She’s selfish. Only cares about herself. Didn’t spare a penny for any of us. Her flat matters more than* family*!”*
I nearly choked. I wanted to scream that if they needed money so badly, they could get jobs. But I kept quiet, just sat there eating, too shocked to even argue.
Then his mum grabbed his arm, yanked him into the kitchen—*”We need to talk”*—while another sister smirked, *”Me and our brother’ll live in his new place. We’ll have our own room.”*
My blood *boiled*. I just stood up, walked out, and called a cab. No dramatic packing—we left right then.
That night, I tried talking to him, but he was a stranger. Silent, then out of nowhere: *”We should divorce.”*
*”What?”*
*”It’s for the best. I need to think about my family… my* real *family.”*
Next day, he packed his things and left. Two weeks later, he rang demanding “his half” of our savings. I transferred it. No fights, no begging, no tears. Just closed the chapter.
Three months later, I bought my flat. In *my* name. With *my* money. Tight budget? Absolutely. Worth it? Every penny. Meanwhile, last I heard, he’s still at his mum’s. His sisters made quick work of his “share”—one “borrowed” it, one guilt-tripped him, one just took it. His dream of a home? Gone.
But that’s *his* story now. Mine? A hard lesson: If a man won’t cut the apron strings, he’ll never fully be yours. If he lets outsiders call the shots in *your* life together, it was never a real partnership. And no amount of money or compromise can fix a marriage where you’re the only one building—while everyone else tears it down.
