**My Diary – June 12th**
I’m Emma, and I’ve been married for six years. My husband, William, is kind-hearted, hardworking, and brilliant with his hands. On paper, he’s perfect—except his generosity never seems to stretch far enough to reach his own family.
William has a large extended family. His mother, brother, two aunts, cousins—even distant relatives—all have emergencies only he can solve. Not next week, not on the weekend. Right now. At midnight. On our anniversary, or when our son is running a fever.
Before we married, I knew he was close to his family, but the full weight of his devotion only became clear after we moved to his hometown in Manchester. We inherited a modest flat from his grandmother, and his relatives promised to help him find work. Naively, I agreed. Two months later, we had our wedding.
At first, I thought his constant errands—fixing this, fetching that—were just wedding stress or settling in. But it never stopped. He’d spend hours digging his mother’s garden, drive 15 miles to help his brother patch a leaky roof, then rush his uncle to the pharmacy at 2 AM. By morning, he’d collapse into bed, muttering about exhaustion. I’d tiptoe around, bringing him breakfast, letting him rest. Then the phone would ring—off he’d go again.
I bit my tongue. I waited, hoping he’d realise he had a family now—a home, responsibilities. But no. His energy went to them. Meanwhile, I scrubbed, painted, assembled furniture, and dealt with repairs alone. A plumber fixed our dishwasher because William’s cousin, who owed us favours, was “too busy.”
I never shouted. I’d say, calmly, *”I’m your wife, not a lodger.”* He’d kiss my hands, beg me to understand, even tear up—*”How can I say no to family?”*
When I got pregnant, I thought things would change. For a while, they did. He carried my bags, cooked, held my hand at doctor’s appointments. Then, just as my morning sickness eased, he was back to his aunt’s clogged sink, his brother’s flat-pack disaster.
*”They’ll help us one day,”* he’d say.
They never did. When our son was born, William tried—for a month. Then he vanished again. I woke alone, walked the pram alone. He was always at his uncle’s renovation, his sister’s house move. Any time of day, they’d call, and he’d go.
The cruelest part? At family gatherings, they’d toast him—*”What a legend! Always there when you need him!”*—while I sat there, smiling stiffly. They saw a hero. I lived with a man who had nothing left for me.
I’ve tried talking. He shrugs—*”You’ve got everything. What more do you want?”*
I want him home. I want him to watch our son grow. I want to matter as much as his never-ending to-do list for everyone else.
Most days, I feel invisible—just the woman who reheats his dinner and watches him leave for another “rescue mission.” And honestly? I’m tired of it.
