When my motherinlaw learned we were planning to buy an apartment, she took my husband aside for a talk. What followed left me stunned.
My husband and I had been saving for years to own a home. I worked for a stable multinational, earning twice his salary, yet we managed everything together: a joint budget, shared goals. The dream of our own flat bonded us, and it seemed nothing could stand in the wayuntil his family got involved.
He had four sisters. In their household a man was expected to be the provider, the savior, the problemsolver. From a young age he financed each sisters studies, bought them phones, lent them money up to his paycheckloans that were never repaid. I watched, kept quiet, endured. I understood they were his blood and deserved help. I even sent money to my own parents at times. Those helpings delayed our apartment plans by almost three years.
When we finally gathered enough cash, we began the search. Mostly I handled it; he worked late. I enjoyed organizing everything, picking the best option for both of us.
One evening his mother invited us to a celebration for the youngest daughters highschool graduation. We attended, dined, and midway through the meal my motherinlaw announced:
Soon my son will move into his own flat Im tired of hopping from house to house.
Proud, my husband replied that we were already looking and that I was taking care of everything.
His expression changed instantly. The smile vanished. He gave me a cold stare and said sharply:
Thats fine but, son, you should ask me first. I have experience. Are you leaving something so important to chance with your wife?
His oldest sister chimed in:
Yes. Your wife is selfish. She only thinks of herself. Shes never helped us! Her apartment matters more than family!
I almost gagged. I wanted to explode, to tell them to work for their own money, but I stayed silent, kept eating, refusing to bite. I was in shock; I never expected such a betrayal at the dinner table.
Soon after, my motherinlaw stood up, grabbed her son by the arm, and led him to the kitchen. We need to talk, she said as she left. Then the middle sister added:
Well live with our brother in his new flat. Therell be a room for us.
My temples throbbed. I couldnt hold it any longer: I got up and walked to the hallway. I didnt even gather my things; we left in a taxi.
That night I tried to speak with my husband, but he was distant, silent. Then he suddenly said:
We have to get divorced.
What?
Its for the best. I need to think about my family my real family.
The next day he packed his belongings and left. Two weeks later he called, demanding his half of the savings. I transferred it to himno yelling, no humiliation, no tears. I simply cut the tie cleanly.
Months later I bought an apartment in my own name with my own money. It was hard; I tightened every euro, gave up many comforts, but I succeeded. He, as I later learned, kept living with his mother. His sisters, predictably, divided his share: one borrowed it, another demanded it, the third begged for it. Nothing remained of his dream of an apartment.
That, however, isnt the point of my story. Mine is a lesson: if a man cant detach from his family, hell never belong to you. If he lets others make decisions for the two of you, theyre not a family. And neither money nor promises can save a relationship where youre the only one building and everyone else is tearing it down.
