My husband Tom’s parents, for some baffling reason, seem to believe I should hand over my entire salary to them. Tom’s tried broaching the subject more times than I can count, but they simply won’t listen. They’re convinced that because I’m part of their family now, I ought to share every penny I earn. The pressure started almost the second we got back from our honeymoon, and now I’m at a loss for how to keep the peace without losing my sanity.
Tom and I have been married two years. We met at university, fell head over heels, and after a few years of dating, tied the knot. Tom’s a sweetheart—kind, thoughtful, always on my side. But his parents, Margaret and Brian, have eyed me with suspicion from day one. I chalked it up to them adjusting—after all, I’m the stranger who swooped in and married their only son. But over time, their attitude started to feel less like adjustment and more like a tax audit.
When we moved in with them to save up for our own place, I assumed it’d be temporary. Tom and I dream of buying a little terraced house someday. I work as an office administrator, he’s an engineer at a factory—decent jobs, but hardly rolling in it. We agreed to stash some cash away and cover our expenses sensibly. His parents *seemed* on board, but then, well—Margaret struck.
One evening over shepherd’s pie, she dropped this gem: *“Emily, you’re family now. You ought to pull your weight. We’re not made of money, you know.”* I was gobsmacked—we bought groceries, chipped in for bills, and I even took over most of the cleaning. But Auntie Marg wasn’t having it. *“If you’re earning, it should go into the household pot,”* she declared. *“Brian and I did it this way, and we turned out fine.”*
I tried explaining we were saving for our own place, but she waved me off like a stubborn fly. *“Why bother? There’s plenty of room here.”* Brian stayed quiet, but his nod said it all. After that, I felt like an unwelcome guest who’d overstayed her welcome. Helping out? Fine. Surrendering my entire paycheque? Not on your nelly.
Tom backed me up, bless him. He had several *polite* (and increasingly less polite) chats with them, insisting we were grown adults who could budget our own lives. Margaret hit back with the classic parental guilt-trip: *“So you’re turning your back on family? After all we’ve done?”* It broke Tom’s heart—he adores them and hates conflict—but their nagging didn’t let up. They even started scrutinizing my spending—if I bought a new jumper or a lipstick, I’d hear, *“That’s money that could’ve gone to the house.”*
I began to wonder if they were right. Maybe I *was* being selfish? But then I remembered how hard I’d worked for this job—the late nights studying, the endless applications. Why should I scrap my own plans to fulfil their idea of *duty*? Tom and I started bickering—not out of anger, just sheer exhaustion. He didn’t know how to reason with them, and I didn’t want to be the wedge driving them apart.
Finally, one evening, I snapped. *“Maybe we should just move out? Even if it’s a shoebox flat, at least I won’t feel like an ATM.”* Tom agreed, but admitted he was terrified of upsetting them. His parents worked tirelessly to give him a good life, and in their minds, this was his way of repaying them. But I couldn’t see why *I* had to foot the bill.
We confronted them together. Mustering every ounce of politeness, I said, *“Margaret, Brian, we’re so grateful for your support. But Tom and I need to build our own life. I can’t give up my entire salary—we have goals. Let’s agree on fair rent, and keep things square.”* They listened, then replied frostily, *“Do as you like. But family doesn’t behave this way.”*
After that, the house felt colder than a British winter. I started scouring Rightmove for rentals, even if it’d mean eating beans on toast for a year. Tom’s supportive, but torn—I see the guilt gnawing at him. I never wanted him to choose, but I can’t live under this pressure forever.
This whole mess made me question what family really means. I always thought it meant backing each other, not shackling each other. I’m grateful for all they’ve done for Tom, but I won’t torch my future for their *shoulds* and *musts*. We’ve decided to find a way—be it a tiny flat or even just a room. The main thing is keeping *us* intact.
Maybe one day they’ll understand. Maybe they’re just scared of losing their son. I don’t resent them—but I need them to respect our boundaries. Until then, I’m learning to stand my ground. After all, if there’s one thing the British excel at, it’s weathering storms with stoic determination. Tom and I will manage—somehow.