My husband Tom’s parents, for some reason, believe I should hand over my entire salary to them. Tom has tried talking to them about it several times, but they won’t listen. They’re convinced that since I’m part of their family now, I ought to share everything I earn. The pressure started almost right after our wedding, and now I’m unsure how to resolve this without causing tension.
Tom and I have been married for two years. We met at university, fell in love, and decided to tie the knot after a couple of years. Tom is kind, caring, and always does his best to stand by me. But his parents, Margaret and David, have been wary of me from the start. I thought it was just a matter of adjustment—after all, I was new to their lives, and Tom is their only son. Over time, though, their attitude began to weigh on me.
When we moved into their house to save on rent, I assumed it was a temporary arrangement. Tom and I dreamed of saving for our own flat, and living with his parents seemed practical. I work as an office administrator, and Tom is an engineer at a factory. Our wages aren’t huge, but they cover our needs. We agreed to set aside some for savings while spending the rest on essentials. His parents seemed supportive at first—until things changed.
One evening at dinner, Margaret remarked, “Emma, you’re part of the family now. You ought to contribute properly. We’re not here to keep you both afloat.” I was surprised—Tom and I already pitched in for groceries, bills, and chores like cooking and cleaning. But Margaret hinted it wasn’t enough. “You earn a wage, so why not put it into the household pot?” she added. “David and I lived like this, and we managed fine.”
I tried explaining that Tom and I had plans—we were saving for our own place—but she dismissed it. “Why bother with flats? Stay here; there’s plenty of room.” David stayed quiet, but his silence spoke volumes. After that talk, I felt uneasy. Helping out was one thing, but handing over every penny? That felt excessive.
Tom backed me up. He spoke to his parents several times, insisting we were adults and could manage our own money. But Margaret only grew cross. “Are you turning your back on family? We raised you, and now you’re abandoning us?” Tom hated upsetting them—he loves his parents—but their pressure never let up. They even scrutinised my spending, scolding me if I bought something for myself, like a new jumper or makeup. “That’s just wasteful,” Margaret would say. “You should put that money toward the house.”
Guilt crept in. Maybe they were right—maybe I *should* give more. But then I remembered how hard I’d worked for my job, the years of study to earn this modest wage. Why should I sacrifice my future for their expectations? Tom and I started arguing—not because we’d stopped loving each other, but because the strain wore us down. He couldn’t sway his parents, and I didn’t want to be the reason his family fought.
One night, I finally said to Tom, “Maybe we should move out? Even if it’s just a tiny flat, even if we scrape by—at least I won’t feel indebted.” Tom agreed, but admitted he feared hurting his parents. They’d worked their whole lives to provide for him, and now, in their eyes, he owed them. But I couldn’t see why that debt extended to *me*.
We decided to talk to them together. Steeling myself, I said, “Margaret, David, we’re grateful for your kindness, for taking us in. But Tom and I want to build our own life. I can’t give my entire salary—we’ve got our own goals. Let’s agree on fair terms for our stay.” They listened, but coldly replied, “Do as you please. But that’s no way to treat family.”
After that, the air at home grew heavier. I started flatsharing ads, though I knew it’d be tough. Tom stands by me, but I see how torn he feels—stuck between me and his parents. I never wanted him to choose, but I can’t live under this pressure anymore.
This whole mess made me rethink what family means. I’d always thought family meant support, not demands. I appreciate all Tom’s parents have done for him, but I won’t sacrifice my future for their idea of how things should be. Tom and I agreed to find a way—maybe a cheap flat, even just a room. What matters is keeping *us* happy.
I hope one day his parents understand. Maybe they’re just afraid of losing their son, of being left alone. I don’t resent them, but I need them to respect our boundaries. For now, I’m learning to stay strong and trust that Tom and I will make it—no matter what.
In the end, family isn’t about obligation—it’s about love, respect, and letting each other grow. Some lessons are tough, but they’re the ones that shape us most.
