I told my husband I couldn’t keep managing the house, taking care of the kids, and now return to work just so we could financially support his mother — and his response completely floored me.
“You know we’re barely scraping by,” I said. “If you want to help your mom, you pick up a side hustle. But I’m not sacrificing our kids’ well-being so she can be comfortable.”
“Yes, she helped us once — and I’m grateful,” I added. “But she’s not out on the streets. She has her own place. She has a pension. Why should we shoulder this responsibility for the rest of her life?”
“She’s not asking for a lot…” Lucas replied hesitantly. “She’s getting older. We should be there for her. Maybe it’s time you went back to work? I’m doing my best, but I can’t support a wife, three children, and my mother.”
“And why should it be your job to support her?” I snapped. “She receives a pension. There’s no law saying you’re obligated to pay your retired mom’s expenses.”
“This isn’t about legality, Emma. It’s about doing what’s right. Same way the law doesn’t require a husband to support his wife once the kids are no longer toddlers…”
“Oh, is that how we’re thinking now?” I shot back. “I’m not staying home because I’m lazy. We have three small children — they need care, structure, love, and meals on the table.”
“Fine,” I said. “If I go back to work, let’s set this straight. I’ll be a full-time employee and a mom of three — but I won’t carry the household alone anymore. I won’t be the one doing the shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and schoolwork while you come home, flip on the TV, and eat dinner.”
From now on, we split everything — evenly. You’ll be peeling carrots while I load the washing machine. Then you’ll see how “helpful” it is for me to return to work.
But then he said something that made my hands go numb. I dropped the plate I was drying. It hit the floor and shattered into pieces. I stood there in stunned silence.
When Lucas and I got married, his mom — Clara — generously gave us a one-bedroom apartment she inherited. At the time, it was a huge blessing, and I was truly thankful.
Later, after our second child arrived, we sold that apartment and used the money for a down payment on a mortgage. That’s how we bought our three-bedroom house — one room for the girls, one for us, and a proper living space. Lucas constantly reminded me:
“If it weren’t for Mom’s help, we’d still be renting a cramped place at triple the cost. She gave us a head start.”
I’ve acknowledged that a hundred times. I haven’t forgotten — but that’s not the issue now. We’re barely making it through each month. And now he wants to send Clara twenty thousand a month — because she wants to quit working, get a dog, and enjoy her days at the cottage.
“You’re not the one who bakes cookies from scratch because store-bought ones are too expensive,” I said. “You’re not clipping coupons and running to five different stores for basic groceries. You’re not the one explaining to our kids why they have to wear the same hand-me-downs year after year. You cash your paycheck and relax — I make it stretch. And now, on top of that, you expect me to support your mom too?”
He said maybe I should go get a job.
“Fine,” I said. “But don’t expect me to take on everything by myself. Once I’m working, we split the household responsibilities. I won’t be coming home from my job just to start my second shift at home. You’ll be right there beside me — folding laundry and helping with homework.”
Our argument was heating up when the phone rang. It was Clara. Lucas put her on speaker.
“Lucas, did you talk to Emma yet?” she asked cheerfully.
He tried to explain gently — telling her we were financially tight with the mortgage and the kids.
“Sweetheart,” she interrupted, “I’ve worked my whole life. I just want to live for me now. Is that too much to ask?”
I clenched my jaw. She didn’t ask if we could handle it. She just assumed it was our turn to take care of her — like it was owed. No compromise. No concern.
After the call, I shut off my phone and stared at Lucas.
“You heard her. To her, we’re just an ATM. And you want me to shortchange our children so she can live her best life?”
He didn’t say anything. He felt for her — I could tell. But he also knew deep down… I was right.
What do you think? Where do we draw the line between being thankful and self-sacrificing? Should adult children support their parents — even when it puts their own families at risk?