“You Should Have Paid for My Renovation Instead of Going on Holiday! – My Mother-in-Law Is Furious We Took Our Teenagers to Italy Instead of Funding Her Home Updates, Even Though Her Flat Is Fine and This Was Our First Proper Trip as a Family”

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 1

You should have given me a new kitchen, not galavant off on holiday!

My mother-in-law blames us for escaping on a holiday instead of paying for her kitchen renovation. Her flat is perfectly nice, well-keptand this upgrade is only a whim of hers. She seems to think were her personal pocketbook, even though she could easily cover the cost herself.

My husband and I are cautious with every penny. Were still wading through our mortgage and raising two teenagers. In all our years together, this was the first summer we allowed ourselves a proper trip. Before this, our holidays meant wandering local woods or renting a musty old cottage near a lake somewhere in the countryside. Our children never saw much of the world, so this year we stretched our budget for a holiday to Italy. We really tightened our beltsbut it was worth it.

Straight after our wedding, my mother-in-law had let us know she wasnt keen on minding children. I accepted that, never even thought to ask her for help. Instead, all those school holidays and weekends, our children stayed at my parents house, while my husband and I worked. I never held it against herit takes plenty to raise a pair of children, and she was by then retired and deserved her rest.

She joined a local swimming pool, visited museums, and went on outings with her friends. Truly, she lives a lively life, even now. The one snag has always been her finances. All her little whims were paid for by her childreneven when it put a squeeze on our own household. She hardly gave a fig for mortgages, bills, or childrenMother simply had to be helped.

To make matters merrier, every weekend she would hand my husband a list of jobs: errands, repairs. But this year she lost the plot altogether and wanted the kitchen redone. Everyone wants somethingand not everything can be done. Isnt that the way of things? Worse, only five years ago wed refurbished the whole placeit all still looked sparkling and lovely.

Mother-in-law hadnt a clue we were off to Italy. Honestly, we hadnt planned to tell her; we wanted to lock up and just slip away. Which is exactly what we did.

But during our absence, she turned up at our door. Finding it barred, she rang my husband. He told her simplywe were in Italy. She hung up, and when we returned, we stepped straight into a true domestic tempest.

You mightve told me, she began. And where did you get the money anyway? You should be doing my kitchen, not flitting off to the continent!

Usually my husband just swallows it all, never ruffles the calm against his motherbut not this time. He told her plainly: our money, our choice, and shed had nothing to do with it.

Since then, my mother-in-law has drawn a frosty line. She hasnt called us, not even her grandchildren. Instead, distant relatives call to insist how unkind we are. Neither my husband nor I feel guilty. My own parents stick by us. We must travel while were young, especially since her demand was more about comfort than necessity.

A Miracle Didn’t Happen Tanya left the hospital with her newborn son. But there was no miracle—her parents didn’t come to meet her. The spring sun was shining, she pulled her now-loose jacket tight, grabbed her bag with clothes and paperwork in one hand, adjusted her baby with the other, and started walking. She had nowhere to go. Her parents had flatly refused to let her bring the baby home—her mother demanded she give him up. But Tanya had grown up in care herself, after her own mother abandoned her, and she’d vowed never to do the same, no matter what it cost. She’d been adopted by a decent couple—not rich, often ill, but kind and indulgent, so she never really learned independence. Now, Tanya understood she was partially to blame for her son’s absent father; he’d seemed serious, promised to introduce her to his family, but when she told him she was pregnant, he’d said he wasn’t ready for nappies, left, and blocked her number. Tanya sighed. “No one’s ready—not the father, not my parents,” she thought. “But I’m ready to take responsibility.” She sat on a bench, letting the sun warm her face. Where could she go? People had said there were shelters for mothers like her, but she’d been too shy to ask about them, hoping her parents would change their minds and come. But they hadn’t. She decided to go to the countryside, to stay with her gran—she’d help out in the garden while receiving Child Benefit, and find a job later. Things would work out; grannies are usually kind. She shifted her sleepy son, pulled out her battered phone, and nearly walked in front of a car. The driver—an older, tall man—jumped out, scolding Tanya for not watching where she was going, saying she could have killed herself and the baby and left him with jail time. Tanya, frightened and teary-eyed, comforted her now-wailing son. The man calmed down and asked where she was going. Sniffling, Tanya admitted she didn’t know. “Well, hop in,” he said. “You and the little one can come to mine, get settled, and we’ll sort things out.” He introduced himself as Mr Constantine Gregory, and helped her in. At his roomy flat, he offered a bedroom for Tanya and her baby and fetched essentials, refusing any money. He quickly enlisted a friendly neighbour who was a doctor; she drew up a list and called in a visiting nurse for tomorrow. Later, Constantine Gregory confided that he’d lost his only son, Saveliy, in a tragic motorbike accident before his wedding. He’d never met his late son’s child—though he had a photo of the bride-to-be and knew she’d been expecting. “Stay here,” he urged Tanya. “You and the baby—this is your home now. I’m lonely, and would love some family around.” Tanya agreed happily—and revealed that she’s adopted from care, her birth mother leaving only a locket on her blanket. When she emerged in new clothes, Mr Constantine Gregory noticed the locket and, upon opening it with a special mechanism, discovered a lock of his late son’s hair inside. Realising that Tanya was actually his granddaughter, he joyfully embraced her and her son, refusing any DNA test—“You’re my granddaughter, and he’s my great-grandson. Case closed.” “Would you like to see photos of your parents?” he asked, his eyes shining with tears of happiness. By Sofia Corall.

My Husband Only Thinks of Himself—He Eats Absolutely Everything and Never Leaves Anything for Our Son! “Adam, where have all the bananas gone?” I ask my husband. “I ate them, I fancied some.” “Couldn’t you have left even one for our son’s tea?” “You’re just making a fuss. It’s not like the shops have run out of bananas.” “Then go and get some more.” “I’ve got a football match. How can I go?” This is how things are in our home all the time: cottage cheese, biscuits, apples—you name it. I even have to hide food, otherwise with a father like this, my little boy might end up hungry. We’ve been married for five years, and our son’s nearly two. We’ve got a mortgage, so money is tight. My husband claims he’s the breadwinner because he got us this home—although, in truth, he just sold his single-bed flat for the deposit, with my parents’ help. My mum thinks Adam is a selfish so-and-so, and honestly, I tend to agree. One day, we were preparing for a birthday party. I’m cooking for the guests and he’s constantly under my feet, emptying the plates. The worst was when he got at the cake. I’d left it on the balcony because the fridge was full. I went to fetch it, and all that was left was one decorated slice of chocolate. Imagine how embarrassed I was! This happens all the time. Sure, he works, but it’s possible to be sensible and think of others. His only excuse: “We’ll buy some more, don’t stress!” Fine, don’t think about me, but how can a father not think about his own child? Especially when we barely have enough money, and I’m counting on every bit. He can easily eat a month’s worth of food in a week. “Why are you bothering him? He’s a man, let him eat. He earns the money. Don’t whinge, just cook more,” my mother-in-law defends him. Thing is, no matter how much I cook, it’s never enough—he’ll eat everything. We can’t afford to just buy more, with the mortgage, the clothes, the bills. After all this, I told my husband that if he does it again—we’re getting divorced. We’ll split the flat and go our separate ways. He took offence, ran to his mother, and now my mother-in-law isn’t even speaking to me. But I honestly think I’m right. What do you think?