“You ruined our family!” my daughter shouts.
My daughter Emily blames me for her divorce, and her words cut like a knife. She thinks I didn’t give her and her husband the right conditions for a happy life. It all started with their fight over the mortgage, even though I begged them not to rush into the loan. But now, I’m the one she holds responsible, and the guilt weighs heavy on me.
Emily and her husband James got married three years ago. She wanted a lavish wedding—a hundred guests, a fancy car, the works. I told her to keep it simple, but her mother-in-law, Margaret, insisted, “For my only son, it’ll be the biggest celebration in Manchester!” I had to dig deep into my savings just to keep up appearances. I warned Emily—no gift from me, because I’d spent my last penny on their big day. Looking back, it makes me shudder how much we wasted on a single evening that now feels meaningless.
After the wedding, they rented a flat. I kept quiet, even though I knew they were throwing money away. They wanted independence, but their enthusiasm lasted barely a year. Renting turned out to be far too expensive.
When James’s grandmother passed, she left him an old one-bed flat on the outskirts of town. Run-down, peeling walls, but livable. Legally, the flat was still in Margaret’s name, but she let them move in. They wanted to renovate. I begged Emily, “Why sink money into a place that isn’t yours? If things go wrong, you’ll be left with nothing!” But she wouldn’t listen.
I only visited once—for their housewarming. The area was grim, an hour from the city centre, the courtyard overgrown, neighbours who looked worn out by life. The kitchen was tiny—no room to move. But Emily and James were glowing, so I bit my tongue, not wanting to spoil their happiness.
A year later, Emily announced she was pregnant. That cramped flat would’ve been impossible with a baby. James asked his mum to sell it and put the money toward a mortgage, but she refused flat-out. They took out the loan anyway. I pleaded with them, “Emily, how will you pay the mortgage on maternity leave? You’ve got a roof over your heads—why create more stress?” But my words just blew past them.
Then Margaret suggested a swap: I’d move into their dingy little flat, and they’d take my three-bed house in the city centre. I said no. Live in some run-down box on the wrong side of town? Not a chance. My home is mine—I’ve earned it. Why trade it for a place where the windows overlook a dump?
Emily held onto that resentment. She and James went ahead with the mortgage anyway—a fixer-upper that didn’t need much work. But when their daughter, Lily, was born, James’s entire salary went on repayments. They were barely getting by. My husband and I helped where we could, but we’re not made of money. I kept saying, “You made this choice—now you have to live with it.” Maybe it was harsh, but what else could I do?
Then Emily turned up at my door, Lily in her arms, and shattered me: “This is all your fault! If you’d just swapped houses, James and I would still be together! Lily’s growing up without a father, and I’ve lost my husband—because of you!” She screamed, she cried, and I just stood there, frozen, unable to speak.
It kills me that their marriage fell apart. But is it really my fault? I only wanted to protect what’s mine, to give them sensible advice. Or was I wrong? What would you have done?
