When my mother-in-law learned we were buying a flat, she took my husband aside to talk. What happened next left me stunned.
My husband and I had spent years saving for our own home. I worked for a stable international firm, earning double his salary, but at home, everything was equalshared budgets, shared dreams. Our flat was the goal that bound us, 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. Since his youth, hed helped each one: paying for their schooling, buying them mobiles, “lending” them his wagesloans never repaid. I saw it, held my tongue, endured. I understood they were his blood, and family should help. Even I sent money to my parents sometimes. But those “favours” stretched our path to the flat by nearly three years.
When we finally saved enough, we began searching. I did most of the workhe was always working late. I didnt mind; it thrilled me to plan, to choose the best option for us both.
One evening, his mother invited us to celebratethe youngest sister had finished secondary school. We went, shared supper, and midway through, my mother-in-law announced,
“Soon, my son will move into his new flat Im tired of drifting between houses.”
Then my husband, beaming, mentioned we were already searching and that I was handling it all.
Her face darkened instantly. The smile vanished. She fixed me with a cold glare and snapped,
“How lovely But, son, you shouldve consulted me. Ive experience in these matters. Are you leaving something so important to your wifes whims?”
His eldest sister chimed in,
“Exactly. Your wifes selfish. She only thinks of herself! Shes never helped us! Her flat matters more than family!”
I nearly choked. I wanted to shout that if they wanted money, they should earn it. But I said nothing. I kept eating, silent, refusing to rise to it. I was in shock. A dagger to the heart at supper was the last thing Id expected.
Then my mother-in-law stood, gripped my husbands arm, and dragged him to the kitchen. “We need to talk,” she said as she passed. The middle sister added,
“Well live with our brother in his new flat. Therell be rooms for us.”
My temples pounded. I couldnt take another wordI stood and walked to the hall. I didnt need to gather my things; we left by cab.
That night, I tried to speak with him, but he was distant. Quiet. Then, abruptly, he said,
“We should divorce.”
“What?”
“Its for the best. I must think of my family my real family.”
The next morning, he left with his things. Two weeks later, he rang demanding his “half” of our savings. I transferred it. No shouting. No humiliation. No tears. I simply cut my losses.
Months later, I bought a flat. In my name. With my money. It was hardevery penny counted, sacrifices were madebut I did it. He, as I later heard, stayed with his mother. His sisters, unsurprisingly, carved up his share: one borrowed it, another demanded it, the third begged for it. His dream of a flat vanished without a trace.
But thats no longer my story. 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, youll never be a family. And no amount of money or vows can save a bond where only you build while the rest tear down.
