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 shattered me to the core.
My husband and I had saved for years to own our home. I worked for a stable multinational firm, earning twice his salary, but we split everything equally—shared budget, shared dreams. The idea of our own place kept us united, or so I thought. Until his family got wind of it.
He had four sisters. In their eyes, a brother wasn’t just family—he was a walking ATM, a problem-solver, their personal life raft. Since his teens, he’d bailed them out—tuition fees, new phones, endless “loans” that never saw repayment. I gritted my teeth and let it slide. Family helps family, right? I even sent money to my own parents. But these “favours” stretched our saving timeline by three long years.
Finally, when we had enough, I took charge of house-hunting. He was swamped at work, coming home late, so I threw myself into it, determined to find the perfect spot for us both.
Then his mother invited us over—his youngest sister had finished secondary school. We arrived, ate, laughed. Until his mum suddenly piped up, smirking: “Soon, my boy will have his own place. Tiring traipsing between visits.”
My husband, beaming, announced we were already looking—that *I* was handling it.
Her smile vanished. She fixed me with a glare sharp as frost. “How *lovely*,” she hissed. “But sweetheart, you should’ve consulted *me*. I’ve lived longer. And you just handed this to your wife on a whim?”
His eldest sister chimed in: “She’s selfish. Only cares about herself. Not a single quid to help us. A flat matters more than *family*.”
I nearly choked. Every word burned—how dare they? If they wanted money, why not earn it? But I stayed silent, chewing my food like it might bite back. Too stunned to react.
Then his mother yanked him away. “We need to talk.” As she dragged him off, his middle sister chirped, “We’ll live with him in the new place. There’s a room for us.”
My pulse roared in my ears. I stood, walked out, didn’t bother packing—we left by cab.
That night, I tried talking. He sat like a stranger, then dropped the bomb: “We should divorce.”
“*What?*”
“It’s for the best. I need to think about *my* family.”
Next day, he packed and left. Two weeks later, he called, demanding “his half” of our savings. I transferred it. No scenes, no begging. Just an end.
Months later, I bought a flat. In *my* name. Every penny mine. Tight budgets, sacrifices—but I did it. He, I heard, moved back with Mum. His sisters picked his bones clean—begging, borrowing, swindling. His dream of a home? Gone.
But that’s no longer my story. Mine is the lesson: if a man won’t cut the cord, he’ll never be yours. If he lets others steer your life together, you were never a family. No amount of money or compromise saves a marriage where you’re building alone—while they tear it down.
