“You ruined our family!” my daughter shouts.
My daughter Emily blames me for her divorce, and her words cut through my heart like a knife. She believes I didn’t give her and her husband the right conditions for a happy life. It all started with their argument over the mortgage, even though I begged them not to rush into it. But now, I’m the one responsible for their troubles, and the guilt keeps me awake at night.
Emily and her husband James married three years ago. She dreamed of a lavish wedding—a hundred guests, a vintage Rolls-Royce. I urged her to be sensible, but her mother-in-law, Margaret, insisted, “For my only son, I’ll throw a celebration all of Manchester will remember!” Reluctantly, I emptied my savings to keep up appearances. I warned Emily not to expect a gift—I’d spent my last penny on their big day. Even now, just thinking about the waste makes my stomach churn.
After the wedding, they rented a flat. I stayed quiet, though I knew throwing money at a landlord was foolish. They craved independence, but their enthusiasm lasted barely a year—rent was bleeding them dry.
When James’ grandmother passed away, she left him a worn-out one-bed flat on the city’s outskirts. Dingy walls, outdated fittings, but livable. Legally, it belonged to Margaret, but she let the couple move in. They planned to renovate. I pleaded with Emily, “Why sink money into someone else’s property? You’ve got no rights—if things go wrong, you’ll lose everything!” She ignored me.
I visited just once, for their housewarming. The neighbourhood was dreary, the commute exhausting, the courtyard overgrown. The kitchen was so cramped, two people could barely move. But Emily and James glowed with pride, so I bit my tongue.
A year later, Emily announced her pregnancy. That tiny flat would be impossible with a baby. James asked his mother to sell it to help with the mortgage, but she refused. They took out the loan anyway. I begged them to wait: “Emily, how will you afford repayments on maternity pay? You’ve got a roof—why make life harder?” My words were just empty air.
Then Margaret suggested swapping homes—I’d take their old flat, and they’d move into my three-bedroom house in the city centre. I said no. Live in that mouldy shoebox on the wrong side of town? Never. My home is my sanctuary. Why trade it for a place where the windows overlook a dumping ground?
Emily resented me. She and James rushed into a mortgage on a rundown house needing no work. But when their daughter, Lily, was born, James’ salary vanished into repayments. They barely scraped by. My husband and I helped where we could, but we’re not millionaires. “You made this choice—deal with it,” I told them. Harsh, maybe, but what else could I do?
Then Emily appeared at my door, Lily in her arms, her voice trembling. “This is your fault! Your stubbornness tore us apart! Lily’s growing up without a father, and I’ve lost my husband! If you’d just swapped homes, none of this would’ve happened!” She screamed, sobbed—I stood frozen, speechless.
It hurts to see their family broken. But is it really my fault? I only wanted to protect what’s mine, to guide them. Was I wrong? What would you have done in my place?
