My daughter-in-law asked me for money to buy my grandkids new shoes. She came over to my house in Manchester on a Tuesday morning, looking flustered and tired, her voice barely a whisper as she sat at my kitchen table. She begged me not to tell my son, Callum.
She said he already had too many worries with his new job and the rising bills, and she didn’t want to bruise his pride by letting him know they were struggling for the basics. I’ve always tried to be the supportive mother-in-law, the one who stays in her lane but keeps her eyes open. I reached into my savings and handed her two hundred pounds, thinking of little Toby and Sophie and the way their trainers looked a bit thin at the toes during our last park visit.
She hugged me tight, promised she’d head straight to the shops, and left with a look of immense relief. I felt good about it, honestly, thinking I was helping keep their little family afloat during a rough patch. But a few days later, I was walking down the high street when I saw her through the window of that expensive salon on the corner.
My heart sank right into my stomach because she wasn’t just sitting there; she was getting the full works. Her hair was being dyed a vibrant, rich auburn, and a woman was hunched over her hands, giving her a set of perfect, shimmering nails. I stood there on the pavement, clutching my grocery bags, feeling a heat rise in my chest that I hadn’t felt in years.
I looked down at the kids, who were sitting in the waiting area of the salon playing on a tablet, and my blood turned to ice. They were still wearing the same scruffy, salt-stained shoes they’d had on all winter, the soles practically flapping as Sophie swung her legs. I didn’t go inside because I knew if I did, I would say things I couldn’t take back in front of the children.
I just walked home, my mind racing with images of my hard-earned money being spent on hair foil and acrylics instead of my grandkids’ comfort. I spent the whole weekend stewing in my own anger, feeling like a total fool for being so easily manipulated. I kept thinking about how she’d used Callum’s stress as a shield to guilt-trip me into funding her vanity.
It felt like a betrayal not just of my wallet, but of the trust we’d built over the five years she’d been in the family. By Sunday evening, I couldn’t hold it in anymore, so I called Callum and asked him to come over for a “chat” after the kids went to bed. He arrived looking exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes that made him look ten years older than thirty-two.
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