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 me and Edward out, no one outright hurt us or cursed us. Yet there came a moment when we realised we’d become little more than a living cash machine for his entire family. Heaven forbid we didn’t hand over the money on demand—they’d cross us out, ignore us, then remember us again when they caught the scent of pounds.
It began with simple kindness. We tried to help—his parents, nieces, cousins. Once you help one, then another, it snowballs. People grow accustomed to generosity swiftly, especially when it’s free money. Gratitude fades, leaving only the conviction: if you gave once, you’re obliged to give forever.
Our family became a feeding trough—not just for his parents, but the whole clan. We stretched ourselves thin, denying our own needs to assist others. Yet instead of thanks, we heard variations of, “What’s the matter, can’t you spare it? You’re well off!” As if working hard and living sensibly made us a bottomless purse.
In time, patience ran dry. We started saying “no.” Plainly. Calmly. No explanations. And if pressed, we invented excuses—money tied up in fixed deposits, penalties for early withdrawal. For the particularly persistent, we’d even fetch loan brochures: “Here, the bank can sort you out.” It didn’t always work. Edward’s sister, Margaret, was the worst.
For five years, we paid her daughter Charlotte’s university fees—every term, every extra cost. When Charlotte graduated, we sighed in relief: at last, we could redirect funds to something truly important, like helping Edward’s mother, Eleanor. A woman of gold, kind-hearted but stubborn—she refused our aid. Her cottage was crumbling, needing rewiring, new windows, pipes… We convinced her to stay with us for three months while we hired builders to turn the place respectable.
All seemed well until Margaret reappeared. Charlotte was getting married, and—surprise!—she needed money again. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“She’s got a groom, hasn’t she? Let him pay. Are we relatives or banquet caterers?”
Margaret’s reply was astounding: since we weren’t spending on Charlotte’s education 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 at our kitchen table, sipping tea with Eleanor, grinning ear to ear.
“Ah, you’re home! We’ve news. Mum’s taking a job to repay the renovations, so you can help with Charlotte’s celebration!”
I opened my mouth, but Edward was quicker. Calmly, he took his mother’s phone and dialled.
“Hello, Mr. Thompson? Edward, Eleanor’s son. Yes, she planned to work for you, but circumstances have changed. We’re taking her on holiday, and after—well, it won’t be possible. Thank you for understanding.”
The look on Margaret’s face—flushed, lips trembling.
“What sort of pantomime is this?”
Edward merely smiled.
“It’s called getting off our backs. The wedding’s your affair—sort it yourselves. You’d even shove Mum into work just to squeeze more out of us?”
Margaret stormed out. Eleanor fretted.
“Was that necessary? I wouldn’t have minded working…”
Edward kissed her cheek.
“Mum, the holiday was improvising. But it’s a fine idea. Let’s truly go. The cottage is nearly done. We all need to breathe.”
Three days later, we were in Crete—sea, silence, olive groves. The best decision in years. As for Margaret and the rest? We don’t speak. And you know what? No heartbreak. Just lightness.
