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 shook me to my core.
My husband and I had been saving for years to buy our own place. I worked for a steady multinational firm, earning twice as much as he did, but we split everything fairly—shared budget, shared goals. The dream of owning a home united us, and it felt like nothing could stand in our way. Until his family got wind of it.
My husband has four sisters. In their world, a man isn’t just a brother—he’s a pillar, a sponsor, a fixer of all problems. Since his teens, he’d helped each of them—paying for tuition, buying phones, lending money “until payday” (which never came). I saw it all, bit my tongue, endured it. Family helps family, I understood. I even sent money to my own parents sometimes. But those little “favours” stretched our house hunt by nearly three years.
Finally, when we’d saved enough, we started looking. I did most of the searching—he was swamped at work, coming home late. I didn’t mind; I was glad to take charge, to find the best place for us both.
Then his mother invited us to a celebration—her youngest had finished secondary school. We went, had dinner, and midway through, my mother-in-law dropped the bomb:
“Soon, my boy will have his own flat… I’m tired of visiting him everywhere,” she said, smiling.
And then my husband, beaming, announced we were already house-hunting, and that I was handling it.
Her face crumpled in an instant. The smile vanished. She fixed me with a glare and said, ice in her voice:
“That’s lovely… but you should’ve consulted me, son. I’ve lived longer, I know better. Did you really leave this to your wife?”
His eldest sister chimed in:
“She’s selfish. Only thinks of herself. Never helped us with a single pound. A flat matters more to her than family!”
I nearly choked on my drink. Every retort burned on my tongue—if they needed money, they could earn it themselves. But I held back. Just kept eating, silent, refusing to engage. I was too stunned. A betrayal, right there at the dinner table.
Then my mother-in-law stood, grabbed my husband’s arm, and dragged him to the kitchen. “We need to talk,” she tossed over her shoulder. That’s when his middle sister piped up:
“Me and our brother will live in his new flat. We’ll have our own room.”
My temples pounded. I didn’t argue—just stood and walked to the hall. Didn’t need to pack; we left in a cab.
That night, at home, I tried talking to him. But he was distant. Silent. Then suddenly, he spoke:
“We should divorce.”
“What?”
“It’s for the best. I have to think about my family… my real family.”
The next day, he packed his things and left. Two weeks later, he called, demanding “his half” of our savings. I transferred it. No screaming, no begging. Just a full stop.
Months later, I bought a flat. In my name. With my money. Yes, it was hard. Yes, every penny counted. But I did it. He, I later heard, moved back in with his mother. His sisters, of course, quickly claimed their shares—borrowed one, begged for another, guilted him out of the rest. His dream of a home? Gone without a trace.
But that’s not my story anymore. Mine is the lesson. That if a man won’t cut the cord, he’ll never truly be yours. That if he lets others steer your life together, it’s already over. And no amount of money, no compromise, can save a union where you’re the only one building while the rest tear it down.
