What Money Can’t Buy: My Marriage, My Parents, and the Price of Love

“So what do your parents do for us, exactly?”

I was standing at the kitchen sink, hands trembling as I tried to rinse the pasta pot, when Mark hit me with the question. The clang of silverware in the basin was sharp, but not as sharp as his tone. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyes hard. The window behind him showed our new backyard—lush, green, and paid for by his parents.

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I stared at my reflection in the water, hoping for a reply that wouldn’t make me sound small. “They do what they can,” I finally whispered. It sounded pathetic, even to me.

Mark scoffed. “My folks bought us this house. They gave us the down payment, the fridge, the washer and dryer, even helped with the wedding. Yours sent a card with a check for two hundred bucks. I’m just saying, it’s not the same.”

The words stung. My parents had scraped together that money from my dad’s overtime at the hardware store and my mom’s weekend shifts at Walmart. They don’t have stocks or a business. They don’t take vacations. They don’t even have a proper retirement fund. But they love me. God, they love me.

I turned off the faucet and faced Mark. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see what your parents do for us? But my folks—they give what they can. They gave me everything growing up. Love, support, their last dime when I needed help with college. Just because they don’t write five-figure checks doesn’t mean they don’t care.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “It’s not about caring, Becky. It’s about help. We have a mortgage now. We have a baby on the way. My parents step up. Yours send thoughts and prayers.”

I bit my lip so hard it almost bled. Was he right? Was love not enough?

That night, I called my mom. She answered on the third ring, her voice tired but warm. “Hey, honey. Everything okay?”

I wanted to lie. I wanted to say yes. But my voice cracked as I started to cry. “Mom, do you ever feel like you’re not enough?”

She was silent for a moment. “Every day, sometimes. But only because I wish I could give you more. I wish—”

I interrupted her, sobbing. “Mark says you and dad don’t help us. That his parents do everything. That you just—”

She didn’t let me finish. “Becky, you listen to me. We love you. That’s all we ever had. We raised you with what we had, and we’re proud of you. Money comes and goes. But love stays. Don’t let him make you feel less because of what we can’t give.”

After we hung up, I sat on the floor of the nursery, clutching the little blue onesie my mom had sent in the mail—bought at a Goodwill, the price tag still on. I cried so hard I thought I’d never stop.

The next day, I tried to talk to Mark. He was scrolling through Zillow, looking at houses even bigger than ours. “We should be thinking about moving up,” he said. “My dad thinks we could get a good deal if we act fast.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. “Why isn’t what we have enough? Why do we need more?”

He didn’t even look at me. “Because that’s what people do, Becky. They move up. They build. They make things better for their kids.”

“And what if we can’t? What if my parents never can? Will you hold that against me forever?”

He sighed, annoyed. “Don’t be dramatic. I’m just being practical.”

But it didn’t feel practical. It felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

Mark’s parents visited that weekend. His mom brought a new stroller—top of the line, still in the box. “We just want what’s best for the baby,” she said, her eyes flicking to the old crib my parents had fixed up for us. It was chipped and worn, but it had been mine as a baby. My dad had sanded and painted it himself, humming old country songs in the garage while my mom sewed new sheets.

After they left, I found Mark in the backyard. “Do you ever feel grateful?” I asked. “Or is it all just a competition?”

He looked at me like I was speaking another language. “I’m grateful. I just wish your side could step up, too.”

It wasn’t just Mark. It was his whole family. At Thanksgiving, they made jokes about my parents’ old car, their tiny house, the way my mom always insisted on bringing homemade pies instead of fancy desserts from the bakery. I laughed along, cheeks burning with shame, but inside I was screaming.

As the pregnancy went on, things got harder. Mark wanted to hire a nanny—his parents offered to pay. I wanted my mom to come stay for a few weeks after the baby was born. Mark said no. “We don’t have room,” he claimed, even though we had a guest room. “Besides, she can’t really help.”

I fought him. I cried. I yelled. “You don’t get it. She’s my mom. She loves me. She wants to help. Maybe she can’t buy us a house, but she can hold the baby. She can make soup. She can just be here.”

He shook his head. “We don’t need her kind of help.”

After our son, Tommy, was born, I called my mom every day. She cried when she saw him on FaceTime. “He looks just like you did,” she said, voice thick with longing. “I wish I could hold him.”

I wish she could too. I wish I could have both: Mark’s security and my parents’ love. But in this house, I felt more alone than ever.

One night, after Mark fell asleep, I sat in Tommy’s room, rocking him as he fussed. The only light came from the old lamp my dad had fixed up. As I hummed a lullaby my mom used to sing, I wondered:

What really matters when it comes to family? Is it the checks they write, or the love they give? And if love isn’t enough, then what am I supposed to do?

What would you choose? What’s really worth more: money or love?