I told my husband I couldn’t handle doing housework, raising the children, and going back to work again just to help his mother — and what he said left me in shock.

“You know very well that we’re barely getting by. If you want to help your mother — find a side job. But I won’t allow us to support her at the expense of our kids.”

“Yes, she helped us in the past, and I appreciate that. But let’s be honest — she’s not homeless, she has a place to live, a pension. Why are we now supposed to carry this burden for the rest of her life?”

“But she’s not asking for much…” Lucas said uncertainly. “She’s getting older. We should take care of her. Maybe you should consider going back to work? It’s too much for me to support a wife, three children, and now my mom…”

“Why should you be the one to support her?” I snapped. “She has a pension! There’s no law saying you must financially support your adult mother.”

“This isn’t about law, Emma. It’s about conscience. Just like there’s no law saying a husband must support his wife after the kids turn three…”

“Oh, I see! So now we’re living by the law? I’m not staying home out of laziness. We have three kids — they need to be raised, educated, and fed!”

“Fine. I’ll go back to work. But let me make one thing clear — I’ll be a working mom of three. And with a living husband, I refuse to be the only one grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, doing homework, scrubbing floors on weekends, and doing laundry for the whole family.”

We’ll split the responsibilities — fairly. You’re used to coming home from work, turning on the TV, and sitting down to a hot meal. Well, forget that! If I’m working, you’ll be peeling potatoes while I do the laundry.

We’ll divide everything 50/50. Then let’s see how convenient my employment really is for you…

And then he said something… that made me drop the plate in my hands. It shattered loudly on the floor, and I stood there, stunned.

Continued in the first comment.

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?