When my mother-in-law found out 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 company, earning twice as much as him, but at home, everything was equalshared budget, shared goals. The dream of our flat united 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. From a young age, he helped them all: paying for their education, buying them phones, “lending them his entire salary”loans never repaid. I saw it, stayed quiet, endured it. I understood they were his blood, and family helped each other. 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 started looking. Mostly mehe worked late. I was happy to handle it, choosing the best option for us both.
One day, his mother invited us to a celebrationthe youngest sister had finished secondary school. We went, had dinner, and in the middle of the meal, my mother-in-law dropped:
“So, my son will be moving into his flat soon Im tired of bouncing between houses.”
My husband, proud, mentioned wed already started searching and that I was handling everything.
Her expression shifted instantly. The smile vanished. She fixed me with an icy glare and snapped,
“How lovely But, son, you shouldve consulted me. Ive got experience. Are you leaving something this important to your wifes whims?”
His eldest sister backed her up:
“Exactly. Your wife is selfish. Only thinks of herself! Shes never helped us! Her flat matters more than family!”
I nearly choked. I wanted to snap back, tell them if they wanted money, they should work for it. But I said nothing. Kept eating, silent, refusing to rise to it. I was in shock. A knife to the heart in the middle of dinner.
Then, my mother-in-law stood, grabbed my husbands arm, and dragged him to the kitchen. “We need to talk,” she hissed as they passed. The middle sister smirked:
“Well be living 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. No need to gather my things; we left in a cab.
That night, I tried talking to my husband, but he was distant. Silent. Then, abruptly, 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. I simply cut my losses.
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, predictably, split his share: one borrowed it, one demanded it, one 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, youre not a family. And no amount of money or promises can save a relationship where only one builds while the rest tear down.
