When my mother-in-law found out we were planning to buy a flat, she whisked my husband away for a chat. What happened next left me utterly gobsmacked.
My husband and I had been saving for our own place for ages. I worked at a steady multinational firm, earning twice as much as he did, but we always split things fairly—shared budget, shared goals. The dream of owning a home together kept us united, and it seemed nothing could stand in our way. Until his family caught wind of it.
My husband has four sisters. In that family, the lone bloke isn’t just a brother—he’s the ATM, the problem-solver, the go-to guy for every crisis. Since his teens, he’d been bailing them out—paying tuition, buying smartphones, or just “lending” cash until payday (which, funnily enough, never got repaid). I saw it all, bit my tongue, played the saint. After all, family helps family, right? I even sent money to my own parents now and then. But thanks to these “kindness installments,” our flat-funding mission dragged on three extra years.
Finally, when we’d scraped together enough, I started house-hunting. My husband was swamped at work, coming home late, so I took charge—secretly thrilled to handpick the perfect place for us both.
Then his mum invited us over for a celebration—her youngest had graduated secondary school. We went, had a nice roast dinner, and midway through pudding, she dropped this gem:
“Hopefully soon, my boy’ll have his own flat… I’m knackered trekking between all your places,” she said, all smiles.
Cue my husband, beaming, announcing we were already viewing properties—and that *I* was leading the search.
You should’ve seen her face. The smile vanished faster than biscuits at a tea party. She shot me a glare that could frost windows and said, icily, “That’s lovely… but son, you *should’ve* consulted me. I’ve lived a bit, you know. Did you really leave this to your wife on a whim?”
His eldest sister chimed in: “Exactly. That wife of yours is selfish. Only thinks of herself. Not a penny to any of us. A flat’s more important than *family*, is it?”
I nearly choked on my Yorkshire pudding. Every fibre of me wanted to snap, *If you’re that skint, get jobs.* But I kept mum, chewing silently, too stunned to engage. Who brings a knife to a birthday dinner?
Then his mum stood, yanked him by the sleeve, and marched him to the kitchen. “We need to talk,” she tossed over her shoulder. Meanwhile, middle sister announced, “Me and our kid brother are moving into his new place. We’ll take the second bedroom.”
My temples started pounding. I didn’t even argue—just stood, walked out, and hailed a cab. No need to pack; we’d come by taxi.
That night, I tried talking to him. But he’d turned into a stranger. Sat in silence, then out of nowhere: “We should divorce.”
“*What?*”
“It’s for the best. I’ve got to think about my family… my *real* family.”
Next day, he packed his bags and left. Two weeks later, he rang demanding “his half” of our savings. I transferred it—no scenes, no begging, no tears. Just closed the chapter.
Months later, I bought a flat. In *my* name. With *my* money. Tight? You bet. Beans on toast for dinner? Often. But I did it. Meanwhile, he—as I later heard—moved back with Mum. His sisters made quick work of his “share”: one “borrowed” it, another guilted him for it, the third wept it out of him. His flat dream? Gone like last week’s lottery ticket.
But that’s not my tale anymore. Mine’s the lesson: If a man won’t cut the cord, he’ll never truly be yours. If he lets outsiders steer *your* ship, it was never a partnership. And no amount of cash or compromise saves a marriage where you’re the only one building while others wreck.
