When my mother-in-law found out we were planning to buy a flat, she whisked my husband off for a chat. What happened next left me utterly gobsmacked.
My husband and I had been saving for our own place for years. I worked at a stable international firm, earning twice as much as him, but we split everything fairly—shared budget, shared goals. The dream of owning a home 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, a man isn’t just a brother—he’s the bank, the problem-solver, the human ATM. Since his teens, he’d been bailing them out—paying for tuition, topping up their mobiles, “lending” money till payday (which, surprise, never got repaid). I saw it all, bit my tongue, played along. Family’s family, right? I even sent cash to my own parents now and then. But thanks to these “generous contributions,” our flat fund took nearly three extra years to grow.
Finally, when we’d scraped together enough, I started flat-hunting. My husband was swamped at work, coming home late, so I took charge—secretly thrilled to pick the perfect place for us.
Then his mum invited us over for his youngest sister’s graduation dinner. We arrived, ate, and just as the trifle was served, my mother-in-law chirped, “Soon, my boy’ll have his own flat! Tired of trekking to visit him.”
Cue my husband, beaming, announcing we were already viewing places—and that *I* was handling the search.
You should’ve seen her face. The smile vanished faster than biscuits at a tea party. She eyeballed me like I’d insulted the Queen and said, icy as a December morning, “That’s… lovely. But darling, you *should’ve* consulted me. I’ve lived longer—I know these things. You’re letting your *wife* decide?”
The eldest sister jumped in: “Exactly! She’s selfish. Never helped *us* with a penny. A flat’s more important than *family*, apparently.”
I nearly choked on my roast beef. Every fibre of me wanted to snap, *If you’re that skint, get a job.* But I kept mum, fork moving robotically, too stunned to engage.
Then his mum yanked him into the kitchen for a “chat.” Meanwhile, another sister piped up: “We’re moving into his new flat. We’ll have our own room.”
My temples pounded. I stood, grabbed my coat, and stalked out. No need for drama—we left by Uber.
That night, I tried to talk to him. He sat there like a stranger, then dropped the bomb: “We should divorce.”
“*What?*”
“It’s for the best. I need to think of my family… my *real* family.”
Next day, he packed and left. Two weeks later, he rang demanding “his half” of our savings. I transferred it—no scenes, no begging, just a full stop.
Months later, I bought a flat. In *my* name. With *my* money. Sure, it meant beans on toast for a bit, but I managed. As for him? Last I heard, he’s back at Mum’s. His sisters divvied up his share—begged, borrowed, or guilt-tripped it out of him. His flat dream? Gone like last week’s lottery ticket.
But that’s *his* story. Mine’s the lesson: If a man won’t cut the apron strings, he’ll never be yours. If he lets others call the shots, it’s not *your* life—it’s theirs. And no amount of cash or compromise saves a marriage where you’re building alone while everyone else swings the wrecking ball.
