When my mother-in-law found out we were buying a flat, she took my husband aside for a chat. What happened next left me speechless.
My husband and I had been saving for years to get our own place. I worked for a stable international company and earned twice as much as him, but at home, everything was equalshared budget, shared goals. Our dream of owning a flat kept us united, and it felt like 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 he was young, hed helped each of them: paying for their uni fees, buying them phones, «lending» them his entire paychequeloans they never repaid. I saw it, kept quiet, put up with it. I understood they were his blood, and family helps. Even I sent money to my parents sometimes. But those «favours» stretched our path to buying a flat by nearly three years.
When we finally saved enough, we started looking. I did most of the searchinghe worked late. I didnt mind. I was happy to handle it, to pick the best option for both of us.
One day, his mum invited us over for a celebrationthe youngest sister had just finished college. We went, had dinner, and halfway through, his mother dropped:
*»Soon, my son will be moving into his new flat Im sick of bouncing between houses.»*
Then my husband, proud, mentioned we were already looking and that I was sorting everything.
Her expression shifted instantly. The smile vanished. She shot me an icy glare and said sharply:
*»Lovely But, son, you shouldve asked me. Ive got experience. Are you leaving something this important up to your wifes whims?»*
His eldest sister chimed in:
*»Exactly. Your wifes 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, stayed quiet, didnt rise to it. I was stunned. A knife in the ribs right at the dinner table.
Then his mum stood up, grabbed his arm, and dragged him to the kitchen. *»We need to talk,»* she muttered as they passed. Thats when the middle sister announced:
*»Well be living with our brother in his new flat. Therell be a room for us.»*
My temples throbbed. I couldnt take itI got up and walked to the hallway. Didnt even grab 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 need to think of my family my real family.»*
The next day, he left with his things. Two weeks later, he called demanding his «half» of our savings. I transferred it. No shouting. No humiliation. No tears. I just cut my losses.
Months later, I bought a flat. In my name. With my money. It was hardevery penny counted, I gave up a lotbut I did it. Him? Last I heard, he was still living with his mum. His sisters, predictably, split his shareone borrowed it, one demanded it, the third begged for it. His dream of a flat? Gone without a trace.
But thats not my story anymore. Mines a lesson. I learned that if a man wont 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 commitment saves a relationship where only one builds while the rest tear down.
