«Lydia,» my mother-in-law said to me. «My son and I have talked it over. You won’t be living here anymore.» It happened after I stopped paying for her expenses…
«Lydia,» she repeated, standing in the doorway of our bedroom, «weve had a proper chat. Youre no longer welcome here.»
Her voice was flat, almost emotionless, as if she were telling me the bus timetable rather than throwing me out of my own home. I stood by the window, clutching a cup of tea. Outside, a dreary autumn rain drizzledthe kind that seems to know youve already lost but keeps falling anyway.
«What do you mean, ‘no longer welcome’?» I asked, though deep down, I already knew.
«You understand perfectly,» she replied, avoiding my eyes. «Ever since you stopped covering my bills…»
She didnt finish. She didnt need to. I already knew.
It had started years agowhen I first felt the ground slipping beneath me. My husband, James, worked for a logistics firm, but his salary was… modest. At least, thats how he put it. Meanwhile, through sheer determinationsomething Id thought he admiredId managed to save a decent amount. I never flaunted it, but when the flat hed inherited from his grandmother needed repairs, and he said, «Well wait, save up,» I offered to pay for it myself.
«Are you sure?» hed asked, looking uneasy.
«Of course,» Id replied. «As long as it feels like home.»
And so began the era of my «contributions.» First the repairs, then a new kitchen, then a pram for our son. I didnt keep track. I thought we were a familythat what was mine was his. But I was wrong.
Mother-in-law, Margaret, lived separately but visited more and more. At first, just weekends, then weekdays too. «To help,» shed say. «To mind the baby.» «Just for a chat.» I never objectedI respected her age, tried to be polite. But soon it was clear: she wasnt a guest. She was the one in charge.
She meddled in everythinghow I fed the baby, how I cleaned, even what I wore. Once, eyeing my new blouse, she sniffed, «Back in my day, that fabric wouldve been used for sacks.»
I said nothing. My parents had worked hard too, but theyd taught me to appreciate both beauty and effort. Margaret, though, seemed to think anything nice must be fake.
Then came the requests for money. Small at first»Lydia, lend us a bit for medicine,» «pensions late,» «phones brokenhelp us out?» I gave without counting. Then larger»roofs leaking,» «need a new fridge,» «a wedding gift for my niece.» I paid for it all. James stayed silent. He could never say no to her. And when I gently suggested boundaries, he just shrugged.
«Shes only trying to help with the baby.»
Help? Oh, she took him out sometimes. But she acted as if I owed her endless gratitude. And still, I paidfor her dentist, her spa trips, her flats refurbishment, even her new telly. I told myself, «As long as theres peace.»
But peace isnt the absence of arguments. Its respect.
The breaking point came in spring, when our son turned three. Id gone back to work; hed started nursery. Margaret still came to «help.» Then one day, I overheard her whisper to James, «Are you sure hes yours?»
I froze in the doorway. My heart stopped, then raced.
«What did you say?» I asked, forcing calm.
She startled but recovered fast. «Oh, Lydia, dont be so sensitive! It was a joke. He looks just like James.»
But he didnt. Not a bit. He looked like melike my father. Everyone saw it. Except, it seemed, Margaret. Or perhaps that was the point.
I didnt make a scene. But that evening, I told James, «Your mother wont be watching him anymore.»
He frowned. «Why? What happened?»
«She planted doubts about his paternity. Thats unforgivable.»
He sighed. «Shes just emotional. It was a joke. Dont take it to heart.»
«Im not joking, James. Either she respects our family, or»
«Or what?»
I didnt answer. But the next day, I stopped paying her bills.
For two weeks, silence. Then she turned up unannounced. «Lydia, the electrics overdue. Winters coming…»
«Youve got your pension,» I said. «And savings. You always said you had a rainy-day fund.»
She looked wounded. «Youve changed.»
«No,» I said. «Ive just stopped pretending everythings fine.»
She left. Ten days later, James called. «Youre really cutting her off?»
«Im not obliged to fund her life. Not after what she said about our son.»
«She was joking!»
«That wasnt a joke, James. That was a knife in the back.»
He went quiet. Then, «Youve turned hard.»
«And youve turned weak.»
We didnt speak for three days.
Then came the final blow. A normal morningfeeding our son, getting ready for work. James left early, muttering about errands. By afternoon, Margaret called. «Lydia, weve decided. Youre not living here anymore.»
I came homemy key didnt fit. The locks were changed. A neighbour saw me standing there, clutching my boy, and understood. «Lydia… Im sorry. They cleared your things out yesterday. Theyre in the basement.»
I stood in that hallway, staring at the closed door. Behind itmy home. My books, our wedding photos, the cot Id paid for… All of it, gone.
I didnt cry. Just took a deep breathand walked away.
The first days were hell. Stayed with a friend, but couldnt impose longtwo kids in a tiny flat. Searched for somewhere, made calls, wrote adsall with a toddler in my arms. Alone.
James went silent. Eventually, a mutual friend passed on his message: «Think about what youve done.» I didnt reply.
Then I remembered my savings. Spent some, not all. Rented a modest flatclean, with a park view. Bought a bed, a pram, all the basics. Started again.
Three months passed. Found a better job. My son grew happier. We walked in the park, read stories, slept close. I felt like myself again.
One evening, James called. «Lydia… can we talk?»
«Go on.»
«I miss you. Mum realises she went too far.»
«And?»
«Will you come back?»
I looked at my sleeping boy, then out the window. No rain nowjust a clear, cold night.
«No, James. I wont.»
«Why? Were family!»
«Family respects you. Doesnt throw you out. Doesnt doubt your child. You chose her. I chose us.»
A long silence.
«What if I choose you now?»
«Too late,» I said. «You already made your choice.»
Nearly a year on, we live in our own housesmall, but ours. Sometimes I think of Margarets words»Ever since you stopped covering my bills»and smile. Because I learned the hard way: my worth isnt in what I pay for others. Its in how much I respect myself.
James still texts sometimes. Asks to meet, says «things have changed.» But I know betterpeople dont change. Circumstances do. And when they shift back, so will he.
I dont regret a thing. Because now, Im free. And my son is growing up lovedwithout conditions, without doubts, without «what ifs.»
And thats what matters.
