When my mother-in-law found out we were buying a flat, she took my husband aside to talk. What happened next left me speechless.
My husband and I had been saving for years to own our home. I worked for a stable international company, earning twice his salary, but at home, everything was equalshared budget, shared goals. Our dream of a flat bound us together, and it seemed nothing could stand in our way. Until his family found out.
My husband had four sisters. In that family, a man wasnt just a brotherhe was the provider, the saviour, the one who fixed every problem. From a young age, he helped each sister: paying for their education, buying them phones, “lending” his entire paycheckloans that were never repaid. I saw it all, stayed silent, endured it. I understood they were his blood, and family helped family. Even I sent money to my parents now and then. But those “favours” stretched our path to the flat by nearly three years.
When we finally saved enough, we started looking. I did most of the work; he was always late at the office. I didnt mindI was happy to organise, to find the best place for us.
One day, his mother invited us to celebrate the youngest sister finishing sixth form. We went, sat for dinner, and in the middle of the meal, my mother-in-law announced:
“Soon, my son will move into his new flat Im tired of shuffling between houses.”
My husband, beaming with pride, told them we were already searching and that I was handling everything.
Her face twisted instantly. The smile vanished. She fixed me with an icy glare and snapped:
“How nice But, son, you shouldve consulted me. I have experience. Are you leaving something this important to your wifes whims?”
The eldest sister chimed in:
“Yes. Your wife is selfish. Only thinks of herself! Shes never helped us once! Her flat matters more than family!”
I nearly choked. I wanted to scream that if they wanted money, they should work for it. But I said nothing. Just kept eating, silent, refusing to engage. I was in shock. A knife in the ribs right at the dinner table.
Then, my mother-in-law stood, grabbed my husbands arm, and dragged him to the kitchen. “We need to talk,” she muttered as she passed. The middle sister smirked:
“Well live with our brother in his new flat. Therell be a room for us.”
My temples throbbed. I couldnt take itI stood and walked to the hallway. Didnt even gather my things. We left in a cab.
That night, I tried talking to my husband, but he was distant. Silent. Then, out of nowhere, he said:
“We should divorce.”
“What?”
“Its for the best. I have to think of my family my real family.”
The next morning, he left with his things. Two weeks later, he called, demanding his “half” of the savings. I transferred it. No shouting. No humiliation. No tears. Just cut the cord clean.
Months later, I bought a flat. In my name. With my money. It was hardevery penny counted, sacrifices madebut I did it. He, as I later heard, stayed with his mother. His sisters, as expected, split his share: one borrowed it, another demanded it, the third begged for it. Their dream of a flat? Gone without a trace.
But thats not my story anymore. Mine is a lesson. I learned that if a man cant separate from his family, hell never truly be yours. That if he lets others decide for you both, youre not a family. And no amount of money or promises can save a relationship where only you build while the rest tear it down.
