**Diary Entry 23rd November, 2023**
*»Lydia,»* my mother-in-law said, standing in the doorway of our bedroom, *»Robert and I have talked it over. You wont be living here any longer.»*
Her voice was calm, almost indifferent, as if she were announcing the weather rather than throwing me out of my own home. I stood by the window, clutching a mug of tea. Outside, a dreary autumn rain drizzledthe kind that seems to whisper, *Youve already lost, but youll keep going anyway.*
*»What do you mean, wont be living here?»* I asked, though deep down, I already knew.
*»You know very well,»* she replied, avoiding my gaze. *»After you stopped covering my expenses»*
She didnt finish. She didnt need to. I understood perfectly.
—
It all began years agowhen I first felt the ground shifting beneath me. My husband, Robert, worked for a logistics firm, but his salary was modest. At least, thats how he described it. Meanwhile, through sheer perseverancea trait Id foolishly believed he admiredId saved enough to be comfortable. I never flaunted it, but when our flat, inherited from his grandmother, needed repairs, and he said, *»Maybe we should wait, save up,»* I offered to cover the costs myself.
*»Are you sure?»* hed asked, uneasy.
*»Of course,»* I said. *»I just want us to be comfortable.»*
And so began the era of my *contributions*. First the repairs, then a new kitchen, then a pram for our son. I didnt keep score. I thought we were a familythat what was mine was his.
But I was wrong.
My mother-in-law, Margaret, lived separately but visited more and more. *»Just to help,»* shed say. *»To look after the little one.»* At first, I didnt mind. I respected her age, tried to be gracious. But soon, it became clear: she wasnt a guest. She was the mistress of the house.
She criticised everythinghow I fed our son, how I cleaned, even my clothes. *»That blouse looks like something wed use for flour sacks back in the village,»* she once remarked.
I held my tongue. My parents had been village folk too, but theyd been decent, hardworking people who valued both labour and beauty. Margaret, however, seemed convinced anything lovely must be false.
Then came the requests for money. Small at first*»Lydia, lend me for medicine,»* *»My pensions late,»* *»My phones brokencould you help?»* I gave without question. Then bigger demands*»The roofs leaking,»* *»I need a new fridge,»* *»A wedding gift for my niece.»*
Robert never said no to her. When I gently suggested boundaries, he just shrugged. *»Shes only trying to help with the baby.»*
*Helping*. Yes, she *looked after* himbut always as if I owed her eternal gratitude. And I kept paying. For her dentist, her spa trips, her flats renovation, even a new telly. *»Peace is worth the price,»* I told myself.
But peace isnt the absence of argumentsits respect.
The breaking point came last spring, after our son turned three. Id returned to work; hed started nursery. Margaret still came to *»help.»* Then one day, I overheard her whisper to Robert:
*»Are you sure hes yours?»*
My breath stopped. When I confronted her, she laughed it off. *»Oh, Lydia, dont be so sensitive! Hes the image of Robert!»*
But he wasnt. Not a bit. He looked like melike my father. Everyone saw it. Everyone but Margaret.
That evening, I told Robert his mother wouldnt be watching our son anymore.
*»She was just joking,»* he said.
*»Some jokes cut too deep.»*
Two weeks later, I stopped paying her bills.
The silence lasted until she appeared at our door. *»Lydia, my electricitys overdue. Winters coming…»*
*»You have your pension,»* I said. *»And savings. You always said you kept them for a rainy day.»*
She stiffened. *»Youve changed.»*
*»No,»* I replied. *»Ive just stopped pretending.»*
Ten days later, Robert called. *»Youre really refusing to help Mum?»*
*»Im not her keeper. Especially after what she said about our son.»*
*»It was just a joke!»*
*»Then why does it still hurt?»*
He sighed. *»Youve become so harsh.»*
*»And youve become weak.»*
Three days later, the locks were changed. My things were in the basement. My home was no longer mine.
—
The first weeks were hell. A friend took us in, but I knew it wasnt permanent. I hunted for flats with my son in my arms, drained my savings, and started over.
Robert called months later. *»Come back. Mum realises she went too far.»*
I looked at our son, asleep in his new bed, then out at the clear night sky. *»No, Robert. Family means respect. You chose your mother. I chose us.»*
A year on, we live in a small housemine, bought with what Id saved. Sometimes I think of Margarets words*»After you stopped covering my expenses»*and smile. Because Ive learned: my worth isnt measured in what I pay for others, but in what I refuse to tolerate.
Robert still messages, asking to meet, saying *»things are different now.»* But people dont changeonly circumstances do. And when they shift back, so will he.
I dont regret a thing. My son is growing up in a home where hes loved without conditions, without doubts, without *»what ifs.»*
And thats what matters.
