When Lucas and I first got married, his mother — Clara — generously gave us a small one-bedroom apartment she had inherited from her own mother. I truly appreciated that gesture — at the time, it was a lifesaver for us.
A few years later, when our second child was born, we sold that apartment and used the money for a down payment on a mortgage. That’s how we moved into a spacious three-bedroom place — with a separate room for the girls, a proper bedroom, and a living room. Lucas keeps reminding me:
“Emma, you know without my mom’s help we’d be renting and paying three times as much. She gave us a start.”
I’m tired of repeating it: yes, I remember. But that’s not the point now. We’re barely scraping by. And now he suggests we give Clara twenty thousand a month because she’s tired of working and wants to live for herself, get a dog, and relax at the cottage.
“You’re not the one spending hours in the kitchen baking cookies because store-bought ones are too expensive,” I told him calmly. “You’re not the one hunting for discounts in ten different stores, or hearing the kids complain that they’re tired of wearing hand-me-downs. You just bring home your paycheck and relax. I’m the one holding it all together — and now your mom too?”
He said maybe I should go to work.
“Great!” I said. “But know this — everything I do at home now will be split equally. I won’t come home from work and cook, clean, help with homework, and wash clothes all by myself. You’ll help. Then you’ll see what it’s really like.”
The conversation got heated. I tossed the dish towel onto the table in frustration when the phone rang. It was Clara. Lucas put her on speaker.
“Lucas, so did you talk to Emma?” she asked cheerfully.
He tried gently explaining that things are tough — the mortgage, the kids…
“Son,” she interrupted, “I’ve worked my whole life. Now I want to live for myself. Am I asking too much?”
I clenched my teeth. She didn’t even ask if we could afford it. She just declared that we owe her. No compromise. No sympathy.
After the call, I turned off my phone and looked at Lucas.
“You heard her. To her, we’re just a bank machine. And you want me to take from our children and give it to her?”
He was silent. He felt sorry for his mother. But deep down, he knew — I was right.
What do you think? Where is the line between gratitude and self-sacrifice? Should adult children help their parents, even if it hurts their own family?