“You destroyed our family!” my daughter screams.
My daughter Emily blames me for her divorce, and her words cut like a knife. She believes I didn’t give her and her husband the chance for a happy life. It all started with their fight over the mortgage, though I begged them not to rush into debt. Now, I’m the villain in their story, and the guilt gnaws at me day and night.
Emily and her husband James married three years ago. She wanted a lavish wedding—a hundred guests, a vintage Rolls-Royce. I urged her to keep it simple, but her mother-in-law, Margaret, insisted, “For my only son, I’ll throw a party all of Manchester will remember!” I emptied my savings just to keep up appearances. I warned Emily there’d be no gift from me—I’d spent my last pound on their celebration. Even now, I shudder remembering how much we wasted on a single day that now feels hollow.
After the wedding, they rented a flat. I bit my tongue, knowing they were throwing money away. They craved independence, but their enthusiasm lasted only a year. Renting drained them dry.
When James’s grandmother passed, she left him a crumbling one-bedroom flat on the outskirts of town. Grim, peeling walls, but livable. Legally, the flat belonged to Margaret, but she let the couple move in. They wanted to renovate. I pleaded with Emily, “Why sink money into someone else’s property? If things go wrong, you’ll lose everything!” She wouldn’t listen.
I visited just once—on moving day. The neighborhood was bleak, an hour from the city center, overgrown weeds in the yard, neighbors who looked like life had chewed them up and spat them out. The kitchen was a cupboard; two people could barely fit. But Emily and James glowed with pride, so I stayed silent, not wanting to ruin their moment.
A year later, Emily announced she was pregnant. That tiny flat would be a prison with a baby. James asked his mother to sell it to help with a mortgage, but Margaret refused. They took the loan anyway. I begged them to wait: “Emily, how will you pay the mortgage on maternity leave? You’ve got a roof over your heads—why create more stress?” My words were useless.
Then Margaret proposed a trade: I’d move into their dingy flat, and they’d take my three-bedroom house in the city center. I refused. Live in a box on the wrong side of town? Not a chance. My home is mine—I’m the mistress here. Why should I swap it for a place where the windows overlook a rubbish heap?
Emily held onto her grudge. She and James, against my warnings, took out a mortgage on a run-down house. But when their daughter, Sophie, was born, James’s entire salary vanished into repayments. They couldn’t afford to live. My husband and I helped when we could, but we’re not made of money. I told her, “You chose this path—now you deal with it.” Maybe it was cruel, but what else could I do?
Then Emily came back to me, Sophie in her arms, and her words shattered me: “This is all your fault! If you’d just swapped houses, James and I would still be together! Sophie’s growing up without a father, and I’ve lost my husband!” She screamed, she wept, and I stood there, frozen, unable to speak.
It hurts to see her family crumble. But is it really my fault? I only wanted to protect what’s mine, to give them sound advice. Was I wrong? What would you have done?
