«Lydia,» my mother-in-law said to me, standing in the doorway of our bedroom, her voice flat, almost emotionless, like she was telling me the bus timetable instead of kicking me out of my own home. I stood by the window, holding a cup of tea, watching the drizzle outsidethat same sad autumn rain that seemed to know Id already lost but carried on anyway.
«What do you mean, ‘dont live here anymore’?» I asked, even though deep down, I already knew.
«You know exactly what it means,» she replied, avoiding my gaze. «After you stopped covering my expenses…»
She didnt need to finish. I got the message.
It had started years ago, back when I first felt the ground shifting beneath me. My husband, Edward, worked for a big logistics firm, but his salary was modest. Thats how he always put it. Me? Id saved up a decent amount through sheer gritsomething I thought he admired. I never flaunted it, but when our flat, which hed inherited from his nan, needed repairs and he said, «Maybe well save up,» I offered to pay.
«You sure?» hed asked, looking uneasy.
«Of course,» I said. «I just want it to feel like home.»
That was the start of my «investments.» First the repairs, then a new kitchen, later a pram for our son. I didnt keep track. I thought we were familythat what was mine was his too. Turned out, I was wrong.
Edwards mum, Margaret, lived separately but started dropping by more often. Weekends at first, then weekdays. «Just to help,» «to see her grandson,» «for a chat.» I didnt mindrespect for elders and all that. But soon, it was clear: she wasnt a guest. She was the one in charge.
She had opinions on everythinghow I fed our son, how I cleaned, what I wore. Once, eyeing my new blouse, she said, «Back in my day, they made sacks out of that fabric.» I bit my tongue. My parents had worked hard too, but theyd taught me to appreciate nice things. Margaret, though? Seemed to think anything lovely had to be fake.
Then came the requests for money. Small at first»Lydia, lend us a bit for medicine,» «pensions late,» «phones broken, can you help?» I handed it over without counting. Then bigger asks»roofs leaking,» «fridge packed in,» «need a wedding gift for my niece.» I paid. Edward never said no to her. When I gently suggested boundaries, he just shrugged. «Come on, Mums trying. She helps with the kids.»
Helped? Sure, she babysat. But acted like I owed her for it. And I kept payingfor her dentist, her spa trips, her flats makeover, even a new telly. I told myself, «Peace is worth it.»
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 «helped.» Then one day, I overheard her whisper to Edward, «You sure hes yours?»
I froze in the hallway, heart hammering. «What did you just say?»
She flinched but recovered fast. «Oh, Lydia, dont be so sensitive! Just a joke. Hes the spitting image of Edward.»
Except he wasnt. Not a bit. He looked like melike my dad. Everyone saw it. Except Margaret. Or maybe that was the point.
I didnt make a scene. That night, I told Edward, «Your mum doesnt watch our son anymore.»
«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, Edward. Either she respects our family, or»
«Or what?»
I didnt answer. But the next day, I stopped paying her bills.
Two weeks of silence. Then she showed up. «Lydia, my electrics overdue. Winters coming…»
«Youve got your pension,» I said. «And savings. You always said ‘for a rainy day.'»
She glared. «Youve changed.»
«No,» I said. «Ive just stopped pretending.»
She left. Ten days later, Edward called. «Youre really cutting Mum off?»
«Im not her keeper. Especially after what she said about our son.»
«She was joking!»
«That wasnt a joke. It was a low blow.»
He went quiet. Then: «Youve turned hard.»
«And youve turned weak.»
We didnt speak for days.
Then came the morning it happened. Normal startfeeding our son, getting ready for work. Edward left early, «busy with work.» By afternoon, Margaret called. «Lydia, Edward and I had a talk. You dont live here anymore.»
I came homekey didnt work. Theyd changed the lock. The neighbour took one look at me holding our son and understood. «Lydia Im sorry. They cleared your stuff out yesterday. Its in the basement. Said youd collect it.»
I stood there, staring at the door. Behind itmy home. My books, wedding photos, our sons crib everything Id paid for. Now, none of it mine.
I didnt cry. Just took a deep breathand walked away.
First few days were hell. Stayed with a mate, but couldnt overstaytwo kids, tiny flat. Searched for places, made calls, all while juggling our son. No help.
Edward went silent. Only message through a friend: «Think about what youve done.» I didnt reply.
Then I remembered my savings. Some gone, not all. Rented a modest flatclean, with a park view. Bought a bed, a pram, started over.
Three months passed. Landed a better job. Our son grew happier. We read stories, walked in the park. I felt like myself again.
One evening, Edward called. «Lydia can we talk?»
«Go on.»
«I miss you. Mum realises she went too far.»
«And?»
«Maybe you could come back?»
I looked at our son, asleep in his cot, then out the windowno rain now, just a clear, cold night.
«No, Edward. Im not coming back.»
«Why? Were family!»
«Family respects you. Doesnt kick you out. Doesnt question your child. You chose your mum. I chose me and our son.»
Long silence. «What if I choose you now?»
«Too late,» I said. «You already did.»
Nearly a year on, were in our own housesmall, but ours. Sometimes I hear Margarets voice in my head: «After you stopped covering my expenses» and smile. Because I learned the hard waymy worth isnt in what I pay for others. Its in how much I respect myself.
Edward still texts sometimes. Asks to meet, says «things are different now.» But I knowpeople dont change. Only circumstances do. And when they shift back, so do they.
No regrets. None. Because now Im free. And our sons growing up lovedno conditions, no doubts, no «what ifs.»
And thats everything.
