You’re Robbing My Son Blind—He Can’t Even Afford a Lightbulb On Sunday morning, I was curled up under a blanket on the sofa. My husband had gone off to his mother’s to supposedly change a lightbulb, but that, of course, wasn’t the real reason she summoned her son: “Son, did you forget that it’s Igor’s birthday today?” My husband is a real spendthrift—his wages barely last a few days. Luckily, he hands over money for the bills and groceries, and the rest goes on new games and whatever else he wants for them. I don’t mind, because I’d rather he indulge his hobbies than spend his time drinking in a garage or clubbing. Plus, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are the hardest for anyone. I’m not telling you this to get your sympathy, but to explain why my husband’s pockets are always empty. I don’t have those problems. I even manage to save a bit and often lend him money when he’s in a pinch. But I always refuse if he wants cash for his mother or other relatives. Of course, I’d remembered it was Igor’s birthday, so I’d bought a present a week ago. Before he left, I handed my husband the gift and settled in to watch a film. I didn’t go with him, as my in-laws and I share a mutual dislike. They seem to think I don’t love him because I refuse to let him spend money on them or babysit their kids. Once, I agreed to mind his sister’s children for an hour, but they left them with me for half the day, making me late for work. I had the nerve to say I wasn’t happy about it, so his mother and sister called me shameless and rude. After that, every request to babysit got a no from me. I didn’t mind if my husband wanted to look after his nephews, since I quite liked playing with them myself. Not long after he left, my husband turned up again—with his whole family in tow, kids and all. His mother breezed right through the house, coat still on, and declared: “We’ve decided that for Igor’s birthday, he should get a tablet—the one he picked. It’s worth £400. So you owe me £200 for your share. Pay up.” Now, I might have bought the boy a tablet, just not such an expensive one. Naturally, I didn’t give her a penny. Even my husband started having a go at me for being stingy. So I grabbed the laptop, called Igor over, and within five minutes we’d picked out a gadget he actually liked and bought it. He ran off, thrilled, to his mum, who’d been sulking in the hallway. My husband’s sister always had sticky fingers, so I wouldn’t be surprised if something had gone missing. His mother didn’t appreciate my thoughtful gesture and instead flared up again. “No one asked you to do that! You were supposed to give us the money. You’re with my son who’s always like a beggar—he can’t even afford a lightbulb. Now give me £200, you know it’s his money.” She even reached for my handbag on the bedside table. I glared at my husband and hissed, “You have three minutes to get them out.” He grabbed his mother and dragged her out of the house. Three minutes—that’s all it took. That’s why, in my view, it’s better my husband spends his wages on games—before, his mother just took everything anyway. Better he enjoys himself than have those leeches snatch it all. Right now, I’m thinking I should have just married an orphan!

I remember that old Sunday morning, wrapped in a knitted throw, stretched out on the settee. My husband had gone off to his mothers houseostensibly to sort out a light bulb. Of course, I knew the real reason for the summons:

Son, dont forget its Olivers birthday today!

My husband has always been rather extravagant. His wages barely last the week, and Im only grateful that he always hands over enough for the electricity bills and the weekly food shop. The rest goes on new games and whatever gadgets he fancies. I never fret about it, though; after all, better he spends his allowance on hobbies than drinking in some draughty garage or wandering the local pubs. Besides, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are the hardest for a man.

Im not recounting this for sympathy but just to explain why my husband always seems to have empty pockets. I save a little myself and quite often lend him some cash if hes in a pinch, though I always refuse if its for his mother, nieces or his sister.

Remembering Olivers birthday, I had already sorted out a present the week before. As my husband set off for his family visit, I handed him the gift and settled in to watch a film. I stayed put; my relationship with the in-laws could be described, at best, as frosty.

Theyre convinced Im cold-hearted because I wont let my husband spend on them or look after his sisters little ones. Once, I agreed to mind the children for an hour, only for them to fetch them back after half a day. I ended up late for work and had the audacity to mention my annoyancewhich led to me being branded as impertinent and ill-mannered by his mother and sister. Every further plea to watch the children received a firm no from me. I didnt object, however, to my husband playing with his nieces and nephews; truth be told, I rather enjoyed watching them together.

Not long after hed left, the front door opened to admit the entire familynieces and all. My mother-in-law, still wrapped up in her outside coat, strode straight in and declared:

Weve decided that Oliver should have a tablet for his birthday; the one hes chosen costs £400. You owe me £200 for your share, so hand it over.

Now, I might have got the lad a tablet, but certainly not one so dear.

Naturally, I refused to pay a penny. At that, even my husband had a go at me about being tight-fisted. I quietly turned on the computer, called Oliver over, and within five minutes helped him choose and order a gadget he truly liked.

He dashed back, brimming with excitement, and went to show his mother, who was still waiting in the hallway. My sister-in-law always seemed to have sticky fingers; nothing ever left without something sticking to her. My mother-in-law, needless to say, didnt find my gesture praiseworthyinstead, she took great offence.

Nobody asked you to do that; you were supposed to give me the money. Youre with my son, and he goes about like a pauper who cant even afford a bulb. Give me £200 at onceyou know full well thats his money!

She even began rummaging through my handbag on the nightstand. I glared at my husband and whispered through gritted teeth:

You have three minutes to get them out of this house.

With that, he finally mustered his nerve, took his mother by the arm, and hustled her out. Three minutes was all it took.

So, Im quite happy for my husband to splash out on gamesfar better than watching his mother whisk away every penny. Let him find joy where he can, rather than handing it all to those grasping relatives.

Sometimes I think, as I sit here reminiscing, that I would have been much happier had I married an orphan.