My Husband Refused to Go to the Coast to Save Money, Then I Discovered a Photo of His Mother on Holiday

24May2025 Diary

Im writing this after a week that feels like a lifetime. Yesterday Emily turned the kitchen table into a battlefield over a seaside break. What, Brighton? Have you seen the prices? We promised ourselves wed tighten the belt this year, I snapped, pushing my calculator aside and pressing my fingertips together in frustration. Every pound counts, she said, the sea, the sea I could feel the weight of her longing as she stared out at the sweltering pavement, heat rising off the July asphalt like a mirage.

Emily whispered, We havent been away in three years. My holiday is melting away. Weve been setting aside a modest sum on the top shelf, enough for a simple guesthouse, not a fivestar hotel. I replied, We cant be modest now. Tickets have shot up, groceries are practically gold. If we spend it all, whatll we have left? Do we really want to be scrubbing the cottage in the Cotswolds all winter? Ill help Mum with her cucumber patch, well roll up the roof on the outbuilding, and youll have fresh country air. Thats enough of a getaway, isnt it?

She sighed. Arguing with me when Im in practical husband mode feels pointless; I always manage to make her feel greedy for wanting a little pleasure while I shoulder the familys responsibilities.

She finally gave in, Fine, the cottage it is. But dont expect me to spend all day at the stove. I need a break. My tone softened, Good girl. Well keep the money safe and still have to renew the insurance, of course.

The next fortnight roared with the citys oppressive heat. Emily trudged to work, daydreaming about a working airconditionersomething I still consider a luxury, Open a window and youve got a draught; why waste electricity?and counting down the days until her holiday. The thought of two weeks at Grandmother Margarets cottage in the Cotswolds didnt thrill her, but it was better than staying cooped up in a flat.

Three days before our planned escape, everything changed. Emily was frying burgers, the kitchen temperature approaching that of a furnace, when my phone rang. I answered, and the smile on my face vanished instantly.

Yes, Mum what? Blood pressure? The doctors? Right, well find the money. Dont worry, health comes first.

When I hung up, I stared at Emily, my expression a mixture of dread and resolve. Emily, theres trouble. Mum called. Her pressure is spiking, her hearts fluttering, the legs are numb. The doctor says she needs immediate treatmentnot just pills, but a full regimen, rest, and a specific climate.

Hospital? Emily asked, her stove ticking off.

Worse. A specialised cardiology sanatorium in the Midlands, where the weather isnt too extreme. They need a full course of baths, massages, the works, otherwise she could suffer a stroke. Shes the only family I have; my father died young. If anything happens to her, I wont forgive myself.

I paced the kitchen, my mind racing. So the cottage plan is off. We have to fund her stay. I checked prices earlier this year when the first symptoms appeared; it isnt cheap. The package, travel, treatmentsall paid.

Emilys face tightened. How much are we talking about?

I hesitated, then confessed, Nearly everything we saved for the holiday, plus a bit from my current wages. Its about £1,500 for a twoweek stint.

She repeated, All the money we put aside for the break and the cottage roof?

Its Mums health, Emily. Were young, well manage. She needs it now.

Her voice grew colder. So the £1,500 wed have spent on a modest guesthouse in Brighton is now gone? And you call that being considerate?

I tried to defend myself, Im doing whats right. Shes my mother. I cant just watch her suffer.

She bit her lip, swallowed her anger, and finally said, Alright. Let her go. Health first. She leaned into my embrace, kissing my forehead, and whispered, Thank you, love. Ill sort the rest tomorrow.

The next morning I emptied our hidden stash. Emily watched the thick envelope slip into my bag, a hollow look in her eyes. She was now alone in the city, with no beach, no cottage, and barely enough cash for a modest coffee.

I returned late that evening, exhausted but relieved that Id fulfilled my duty. Shes on the train now, I said, slumping onto the sofa. She fought, she cried, but I convinced her to take the money. Shes heading to a sanatorium near Telford; they say the air is therapeutic.

Will she call when she arrives? Emily asked.

Connection is patchy out there. The place is remote, they even advise turning phones off to avoid any interference with the treatment. Shell only reach us through the reception every few days, I replied.

Emilys holiday became a series of domestic tasks: a deep clean, endless scrolling on her phone, trying to fill the void. The city remained a furnace. I went to work, returning each night to recount how hard it was, how often I thought of Mum, how the pressure at the clinic was easing.

One evening, while we ate stew, I mentioned, Mums voice sounded brighter today. The treatments are helping. Shes eating a special diet, reading, and enjoying the pinescented air.

Emily smiled faintly, Good. Maybe I should bake her a cake.

Later, scrolling through my laptop, I stumbled upon a photo feed. Everyone seemed to be at the beach, sipping drinks, sunkissed. A pang of envy hit meexcept the feed suggested a possible acquaintance. I clicked on a profile called Louise Bright. The name was familiar; the face, however, was strikingly like my mothers, but with a flamboyant hat and huge fuchsia lipstick.

It turned out to be a friend of Margarets from school days, posting from Adlington, seaside resort. The picture showed two women by a turquoise pool, cocktails with tiny umbrellas, and a plate of prawns. One woman was Louise; the other was unmistakably my mother, laughing in a leopardprint swimsuit, a gold chain she and I had given her on her birthday hanging around her neck.

My heart sank. The subsequent photos showed Margaret on an inflatable banana ride, dancing at a sunset promenade, and checking into a luxury suite with a sea viewall under the caption Thanks, kids, for the gift! The kids were clearly us.

I stared at the screen, the weight of my deception crushing me. I remembered my own words to Emily: No money, youre frivolous, Mum is dying, the signal is bad. I had been the very liar Id accused her of being.

I took screenshots, poured a glass of water, and let the cold rush of anger seep in. I knew Stephen would be home in an hour, but I didnt want a shouting match at the door. I prepared dinner, set the table, and waited.

When he entered, he shrugged off his shoes, Long day, love. The office AC broke, we were almost fried. Anything to eat?

Here it is, I said, sliding the plate forward.

We ate in silence until I asked, Hows Mum doing? She called today?

He paused, fork midair, then replied, She called briefly. The connection is terrible. Shes mostly resting, reading, the treatments are hard but shes coping. The weather up there is cool, as the doctor advisedno heat for her blood pressure.

I see, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Do you think we could visit her for the weekend? Bring her some groceries? Its only about a fivehour drive.

His face flushed, a cough escaping his throat. No, love. The sanatorium is a closeddoor facility, strict quarantine. The doctors forbid visitors; they say wed raise her stress and spike her pressure.

I shook my head, Well, a pity. I was hoping to bake her a cake.

I nudged my laptop forward, Look, I found a resort online. Maybe we could book it for next year? See the pool, the palms, the sea breezegreat for the heart, they say.

He squinted at the screen, his eyes widening as he recognized the familiar swimsuit and the golden necklace. Thats thats Mum, he whispered.

The room fell deathly quiet. I clicked to the next photo: Margaret on a banana float, laughing, the caption Feeling super! My pulse thudded in my ears.

Explain, I said, voice low. How is it that were scrimping on our own modest holiday while Mum is lounging at a seaside resort, funded by the money we set aside for the cottage?

He stammered, She was really ill. The doctor said sea air was essential. I knew youd object, so I I used the money. It was cheaper than the inland sanatorium, and I thought I thought I was doing the right thing.

I stood, the chair scraping the floor. You stole the £1,500 we saved together. You told me there was no money, that we were short, that you were sacrificing. You lied about the location, the condition, everything, to hide the truth.

His eyes darted. I didnt steal I borrowed. She raised me. Im obligated.

Obligated to whom? To me? To the mortgage? To the bills? My salary goes to the house, the car, the little luxuries you keep in your stash. The money we saved was joint, and you ripped it away for a holiday you never told me about.

He tried to defend himself, It was for her health! Ill pay you back, Ill earn more, Ill make it right.

I shook my head, You cant repay trust. You cant replace respect. To me, youre not a partner; youre a pawn, a convenient hand for chores, for money, while your mother is a saint you can cheat for.

I walked to the hall, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out the suitcase Id intended for our Brighton trip. Where are you going? he asked, panic flashing.

Nowhere, I said calmly. Youre the one leaving this house.

He stared, bewildered. Where am I supposed to go? This is my home too.

It isnt, I replied. I bought this flat before we married. Youre just on the lease, temporarily. Pack your things now, or Ill call the police and say youre refusing to leave.

He shouted, threatened divorce, called me selfish. I only nodded, Divorce, yes. Ill file tomorrow. He kept throwing shirts into a bag, pleading, but I stood firm, watching his desperation.

He lunged, Youll regret this! No one will want you! Mums rightshe always said you dont love me!

I answered coolly, Tell Mum Im fine. She doesnt need to bring me any souvenirs. Ive had enough of this familys lies.

The door slammed. I locked it twice, then chained the bolt. Silence filled the flat the kind of quiet that feels like cleansing.

I returned to the laptop, deleted the folder of screenshots, and logged into my bank. A modest personal stash, unknown to Stephen, remained enough for a ticket.

I booked a lastminute deal to Turkey, departing the day after tomorrow. A threestar hotel, a solo trip, but it would be my sea, my rest, my fresh start, free from deceit.

I stepped onto the balcony, inhaled the stale city air, and for the first time this summer I actually smiled. Freedom lies ahead.

Lesson learned: honesty in partnership is priceless; without it, even the deepest pockets cannot buy peace.