My Son Abandoned Me for Years, But Now He’s Back to Ask for Money, “Can’t You Just Get Over It? I Need This Money, Mom.”

 
My mother-in-law is 82. The dementia started slowly—forgetting little things like dates and names. 

But now it’s more than that. She calls my husband three times a day, convinced someone has stolen her purse or that there’s a stranger at her door. He drops everything to calm her down. And I’m starting to feel like I don’t exist.

For illustration purposes

I know it’s cruel to feel this way, but the jealousy is eating me alive.

Husband: "She’s confused again. She thought I was my dad this morning."

DIL: "That must’ve been hard."

Husband: "Yeah." (pausing) "I think it’s time to move her in."

DIL: "Do we have to decide that now?"

Husband: "She’s getting worse."

Last week, I planned a quiet dinner at home. Candles, music, his favorite meal. I wore a black dress he once told me made me look stunning.

Husband: "This looks amazing."

DIL: (flirtatious) "Only the best for you."

His phone buzzed. He picked it up immediately.

Husband: (to his mother) "No, Mum, you’re at home. No one’s there. Just check the lock." "I’ll be right over."

He was gone before I’d even finished pouring the wine. I ate alone.

Another time, I tried to suggest a weekend away.

DIL: "What if we take a trip? Just the two of us?"

Husband: (hesitant) "I don’t know if I can leave her alone that long."

DIL: "We could find someone to check in on her."

Husband: "She wouldn’t be comfortable with that."

For illustration purposes

DIL: "What about me? When was the last time I was comfortable?"

Husband: (defensive) "She’s my mother."

I hate how bitter I sound.

A few nights ago, we were watching a movie together when his phone rang.

DIL: "Let it go to voicemail."

Husband: "It’s Mum."

DIL: "Of course it is."

He answered it. Five minutes later, he was putting on his coat.

DIL: "Where are you going?"

Husband: "She thinks someone’s in the house again."

DIL: "There’s not."

Husband: (sighing) "But she’s scared."

DIL: "And what about me?"

He hesitated—then left anyway.

I started noticing how much of my life was adjusting to her.

He made excuses to skip dinners with my family because "Mum might need me."

He rearranged our bedroom so his phone was closer to him at night in case she called.

For illustration purposes

And then there were the conversations with his mother—how he’d stroke her hair and smile when she got confused, his patience endless.

Once, I walked in while he was helping her take her sweater off. She was laughing. He was smiling.

MIL: (teasing) "You’ve always been such a good boy."

DIL: "Need help?"

Husband: "We’ve got it."

I started going out more. Met friends for drinks. Bought a new dress, hoping he’d notice. He didn’t. He came home late that night, smelling like the antiseptic from his mother’s nursing home.

DIL: "Long night?"

Husband: (exhausted) "She had a rough day."

DIL: "And how was your day?"

Husband: (distracted) "Huh?"

He never asked how I was doing anymore.

I even tried to bring intimacy back. One night, I slid into bed wearing a silk nightgown. I ran my hand down his arm.

DIL: "Miss me?"

Husband: "Always." "But Mum—"

DIL: "Right. Mum."

Last weekend, I suggested we visit our daughter for lunch.

DIL: "We haven’t seen her in weeks."

Husband: (hesitant) "Mum’s been asking if we could spend Sunday with her."

DIL: (snapping) "She has you every other day."

Husband: "She won’t be around forever."

DIL: (whispering) "Neither will I."

For illustration purposes

And that’s when it hit me.

It’s not just that he loves his mother. It’s that he’s choosing her over me—every single day.

And part of me knows he’s right to do it. She’s dying. He’ll regret it if he doesn’t care for her.

But where does that leave me?

I know I should be understanding. I know I should support him. But I’m not that big of a person. 

Because when he looks at her with so much love and patience, I wonder—why can’t he give that to me?

DIL: (hesitant) "Have you ever… thought about other options?"

Husband: "What do you mean?"

DIL: "A care home. Somewhere she’d be safe. Looked after."

Husband: "She’s not there yet."

DIL: "But she will be."

Husband: "She’s my mother."

DIL: "And I’m your wife."

For illustration purposes

He looks at me like I’ve said something unforgivable. And maybe I have. But how long am I supposed to wait—watching him give every last piece of himself to her while I stand there, waiting to be seen?

Husband: "You know I can’t do that."

DIL: "I know. But I don’t know how much longer I can do this."

He doesn’t answer. He just looks away. And I wonder if, when this is over—when she’s gone—there’ll be anything left of us to save.

For illustration purposes

Then one night, this happened. MIL had been sitting quietly at the table, fidgeting with the edge of her napkin.

MIL: (hesitant) "I know I’m difficult sometimes."

DIL: (surprised) "You’re not difficult."

MIL: (meeting her eyes) "Yes, I am. But you’ve been patient with me. More than I deserve."

DIL: "You’re doing the best you can."

Later that night, as I stood at the sink washing dishes, he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind.

Husband: (whispering) "I see you."

DIL: (tears welling) "I’m still here."

Husband: "I know." (kissing her forehead) "And I’m not going anywhere."

Maybe this won’t be easy. But maybe, just maybe, we’ll figure it out together.

You may also like: "You've Got Your House and Pension. I Need Help with the Bills!"— Daughter Expects Lottery Money from 68-Year-Old Mom”

This story reflects one perspective and is shared to spark discussion and connection. While inspired by real situations, some details may have been altered for privacy and clarity.

Read similar stories straight from your inbox. It’s free!