When my mother-in-law found out we were planning to buy a flat, she pulled her son aside for a private chat. What happened next shattered me to the core.
My husband and I had been saving for years to buy our own place. I worked at a stable multinational firm, earning twice what he did, but in our marriage, everything was fair—shared finances, shared dreams. The thought of our own home bound us together, and it seemed nothing could stand in our way. Until his family found out.
My husband had four sisters. In that household, a man wasn’t just a brother—he was the backbone, the provider, the solver of every problem. Since he was young, he’d bailed each of them out—tuition fees, a new phone, or just a “loan till payday” that never saw repayment. I saw it all. Stayed quiet, endured it. Family helps family, I told myself. I even sent money to my own parents now and then. But those endless handouts stretched our path to homeownership by nearly three years.
Finally, when we’d saved enough, I began scouting properties. I took charge—he was swamped at work, coming home late. I didn’t mind; I wanted to find the perfect place for us. Then his mother invited us over for a celebration—his youngest sister had finished secondary school.
Dinner was pleasant until his mother suddenly said, *”Soon, I hope, my boy will move into his own place. I’m tired of visiting him like a guest.”*
My husband, beaming, announced we were already looking—and that I was handling the search.
You should’ve seen her face. The warmth vanished. Her gaze turned sharp as frost as she snapped, *”That’s… lovely. But you should’ve consulted me first. I’ve lived longer—I know better. Did you just leave this to your wife on a whim?”*
His eldest sister chimed in, *”Exactly. She’s selfish. Only cares about herself. Never lifted a finger for any of us. A flat matters more than family, does it?”*
I nearly choked on my food. I wanted to scream at them—if they needed money so badly, they could bloody well earn it. But I stayed silent, too stunned to engage.
Then his mother stood, gripped his wrist, and dragged him to the kitchen. *”We need to talk.”*
At the table, his middle sister smirked. *”Me and our brother will live in his new place. We’ll have our own room.”*
My pulse pounded in my ears. I stood without a word and walked to the hall. No need to pack—we left in a cab.
That night, I tried to talk to him. But he was distant. Silent. Then, out of nowhere: *”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 rang, demanding *”his half”* of our savings. I sent it. No hysterics. No begging. Just quiet finality.
Months later, I bought the flat. In my name. With my money. Every pound pinched, every comfort sacrificed—but I did it. He, as I later heard, moved back in with his mum. His sisters, of course, bled him dry—one took a loan, another begged, the third wheedled his share away. Not a trace of his dream remained.
But that’s no longer my story. Mine is the lesson. That if a man can’t cut the cord, he’ll never truly be yours. That if he lets others dictate your life, you were never really a family. And no money, no compromise, can save a union where you’re the only one building—while the rest tear it down.
