Why We Stopped Speaking to My Husband’s Family — A Tale of Weariness
Sometimes, cutting ties with relatives isn’t a tragedy but a liberation. No one drove us away, no one outright insulted or cursed us. Yet, in time, my husband Edward and I realised we’d become little more than a wallet to his entire family. God forbid we hesitated to hand over cash at their first demand—we’d be ignored, erased, only to be remembered again when money was in the air.
It began with simple kindness. We helped—his parents, nieces, cousins. Once, twice, and before we knew it, it became expected. People grow accustomed to generosity quickly, especially when it comes free of charge. Gratitude fades, replaced by entitlement: if you gave once, you were bound to give forever.
Our home became a feeding trough—not for his parents alone, but the whole clan. We stretched ourselves thin, denying our own needs to assist others. Yet instead of thanks, we heard, “What’s the matter, can’t you spare it? You’re well off!” As if our careful budgeting and hard work were mere luck.
Eventually, patience ran dry. We started saying no—plainly, calmly, without excuses. For the especially persistent, we invented reasons. “The money’s tied up in savings,” we’d say, or, “Withdrawing now would cost us interest.” For the most relentless, we even pulled out loan brochures: “Here, the bank will help you.” It didn’t always work. Edward’s sister, Margaret, was particularly stubborn.
For five years, we paid for her daughter Sophia’s education—every term, every expense. When Sophia graduated, we breathed a sigh of relief, ready to redirect funds to what truly mattered. Like helping Edward’s mother, Eleanor, whose cottage was falling apart—wiring, windows, pipes all in disrepair. We persuaded her to stay with us while workmen transformed the place.
All was well until Margaret reappeared. Sophia was getting married, and—surprise!—they needed money again. I laughed outright. “She’s got a groom, hasn’t she? Let him pay. Are we relatives or a banquet hall?”
Margaret’s reply was staggering: since we weren’t paying Sophia’s tuition anymore, surely we could fund the wedding. I was speechless. But the circus didn’t end there.
Days later, we returned from work to find Margaret in our kitchen, sipping tea with Eleanor, grinning ear to ear. “Ah, you’re home! Wonderful news—Mother’s taking a job to repay the renovations, so you can help with the wedding!”
I opened my mouth, but Edward was quicker. Calmly, he took his mother’s phone and dialled. “Mr. Whitmore? Edward here, Eleanor’s son. I’m afraid she won’t be able to start that position. We’re leaving for holiday, and after—well, it won’t be possible. Thank you for understanding.”
The look on Margaret’s face was priceless. Flushed, lips trembling, she spat, “What sort of game is this?”
Edward merely shrugged. “It’s called ‘enough is enough.’ The wedding’s your affair—sort it yourselves. You’d even push Mother into work just to squeeze more out of us?”
Margaret stormed out. Eleanor fretted, “Was that necessary? I wouldn’t have minded working…”
Edward smiled. “Mother, the holiday was a ruse. But now I think on it—let’s go. The repairs are nearly done. We all need a rest.”
Three days later, we were bound for the Isle of Wight. Sea air, quiet, green hills—the best decision in years. As for Margaret and the rest? We don’t speak. And you know? There’s no heartache. Only peace.
