«Lydia,» my mother-in-law said to me. «Weve talked it overyoure no longer welcome here.» It all began when I stopped paying her expenses.
«Lydia,» she repeated, standing in the doorway of our bedroom, her voice flat, emotionless, as if discussing the weather rather than evicting me from my own home. I stood by the window, cradling a mug of tea. Outside, a dreary autumn rain fellthe kind that seems to whisper, *Youve already lost, but you carry on anyway.*
«What do you mean, ‘no longer welcome’?» I asked, though I already knew.
«You know exactly what I mean,» she replied, avoiding my gaze. «Ever since you stopped covering my expenses…»
She didnt need to finish. I understood perfectly.
It had started years ago, when I first felt the ground slipping beneath me. My husband, Edward, worked for a logistics firm, but his salary was, as he put it, «modest.» Meanwhile, through sheer determinationa trait Id once believed he admiredId saved a decent sum. I never flaunted it, but when our inherited flat needed repairs and he said, *Well manage eventually*, I offered to pay.
«Youre sure?» hed asked, hesitating.
«Of course,» I said. «All that matters is we have a home.»
That marked the beginning of my «investments.» First the repairs, then a new kitchen, later a pram for our son. I didnt keep score. I thought we were a familythat what was mine was his, too. But I was wrong.
My mother-in-law, Margaret, lived separately but visited increasingly often*to help with the baby*, *to chat*. At first, I didnt object. I respected her age, tried to be polite. But soon, it was clear: she wasnt a guest. She was the mistress of the house.
She critiqued everythinghow I fed our child, cleaned, even dressed. Once, eyeing my new blouse, she remarked, *We used to make sacks from that fabric back in my day.* I bit my tongue. My parents had been hardworking, dignified people who valued both labour and beauty. Margaret, however, seemed to believe anything lovely was inherently false.
Then came the requests for money. Small at first*Lydia, could you lend me something for medicine?* *My pensions late.* *My phones brokencould you help?* I obliged. Then it escalated*the roofs leaking*, *I need a new fridge*, *a wedding gift for my niece*. I paid for it all. Edward never said no to her. When I gently suggested boundaries, he shrugged. *Shes just trying to help with the baby.*
*Help.* Yes, she babysatbut as if I owed her eternal gratitude. And I kept payingfor her dental work, her spa trips, even her new telly. I told myself, *Peace is worth the price.*
But peace isnt the absence of arguments. Its respect.
The breaking point came when our son turned three. Id returned to work; hed started nursery. Margaret still «helped»until the day I overheard her whisper to Edward, *Are you sure hes yours?*
I froze. My heart stalled, then raced.
«What did you say?» I asked, forcing calm.
She flinched but recovered quickly. *Oh, Lydia, must you be so sensitive? It was a joke. Hes the spitting image of you!*
But he wasnt. Not remotely. He looked like melike my father. Everyone saw it. Except Margaret. Or perhaps that was the point.
I didnt make a scene. But that evening, I told Edward, *Your mother wont be watching him anymore.*
*Why? What happened?*
*She questioned his paternity. Thats unforgivable.*
He sighed. *Shes just emotional. 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.
For two weeks, silence. Then she appeared unannounced. *Lydia, my electricitys overdue. Winters coming…*
*You have your pension,* I said. *And savings. You always said you were prepared.*
She glared. *Youve changed.*
*No,* I replied. *Ive just stopped pretending.*
She left. Ten days later, Edward called. *Youre really cutting her off?*
*Im not her keeper. Especially after what she said.*
*It was a joke!*
*It was a knife to the ribs, Edward.*
He fell quiet, then muttered, *Youve become heartless.*
*And youve become weak.*
We didnt speak for three days.
Then came the morning I returned to find the locks changed. A neighbour met me in the hall, sympathy in her eyes. *Lydia… Im sorry. They cleared your things out yesterday. They said youd collect them.*
I stood there, clutching my son, staring at the closed door. Behind itmy home. My books, wedding photos, the cot Id paid for. All of it, no longer mine.
I didnt cry. I just breathedand walked away.
The first days were hell. I stayed with a friend but knew it wasnt permanent. I hunted for flats, made calls, all while caring for my son. Alone.
Edward went silent. Only through a mutual acquaintance did he send word: *Think about what youve done.* I didnt respond.
Then I remembered my savings. Id spent some, but not all. I rented a modest flatsmall but clean, with a view of the park. Bought a cot, a pram, the essentials. Started anew.
Three months passed. I found a better job. My son grew happier. We read stories, walked in the park, slept side by side. I felt like myself again.
One evening, Edward called. *Lydia… can we talk?*
*Go ahead.*
*I miss you. Mum realises she went too far.*
*And?*
*Maybe you could come back?*
I looked at my son, asleep in his cot, then out the window. The rain had stopped; the night was clear and cold.
*No, Edward. Im not coming back.*
*Why? Were family!*
*Family respects you. They dont cast you out. They dont doubt your child. You chose your mother. I chose myselfand our son.*
A long silence. *What if I choose you now?*
*Too late,* I said. *Youve already made your choice.*
Nearly a year later, my son and I live in a house of our ownsmall, but ours. Sometimes I recall Margarets words*Ever since you stopped covering my expenses*and smile. Because Ive learned my worth isnt in what I pay for others, but in what I refuse to tolerate.
Edward still messages sometimes, asking to meet, saying *things are different now*. But I know better. People dont changeonly their circumstances do. And when those shift back, so will they.
I dont regret a thing. Im free. And my son is growing up lovedwithout conditions, without doubts, without *what ifs*.
And thats everything.
