“If cooking is such a burden for you, perhaps you should leavewell manage just fine without you,” declared my mother-in-law, backed by my husband…
“If its so difficult for you to cook, why not go and let us fend for ourselves?” snapped my mother-in-law, and my husband nodded in agreement.
Never could I have imagined that in a single moment, my life would unravel so completely. That betrayal would come not from strangers, but from those I trusted most. One conversation with Margaret Whitmoremy mother-in-lawand I knew I could rely on no one but myself. It began, oddly enough, with a simple remark: “Mum needs to rest. Shes exhausted. Couldnt you go away for a few weeks so she isnt disturbed?” That was what my husband said. The man I dreamed of growing old with. The one I fed, clothed, and stood by through everything. And for what?
Thomasmy husbandwas away on business yet again. He worked as a technician in the factories and often travelled across England. I never complained; he brought in a good wage, and we lived comfortably. We stayed in my two-bedroom flat, inherited from my aunt. It suited him well enough, and me, it gave peace. But every time he left, his mother would turn up unannounced. Margaret Whitmore. No knock, no warning. Shed appear on the doorstep like a storm, laying down her laws at once: what to cook, how to tidy, where to store the linens, which groceries to buy.
I held my tongue. I tried to be polite. I told myself she was old, lonelyId offer her kindness and care. But instead of gratitude, all I received were scoldings. “You cant even make a proper stew,” “Theres dust everywhere,” “How will you raise children if you cant even peel potatoes?” Then it grew worse. She demanded I leave. My own home. So she, so weary and wretched, could “finally get some proper sleep.” Sleep! In my own flat! Where would I go? A friends house? An inn?
So I rang Thomas, trembling with hope. I told him everything. I expected his support. And he… he wasnt even surprised. “Mum really does need rest. Be a good lass, bear with it. Go away for a bit, and well talk later…” He didnt ask where Id stay. He didnt offer to pay for a room. Not a word to remind me I was his wife, the mistress of the house, the mother of his future children.
That was the end. I understood thenthere was no love left. Just a practical woman, good for cooking, cleaning, and serving. No tenderness, no respect. I told him, “If you want to stay with your mother, stay. But Im filing for divorce.” He didnt argue. Silence. A few days later, he returned, gathered his things without a word, and went off to join her in her hometown. And I remained. In my flat. Alone. Empty.
I didnt weep. I had no tears left. Theyd dried up the day he chose her over me. Now, I live. Quietly. Without shouting. Without criticism. Without pain. Sometimes, a thought of him crosses my mind, and my heart tightens. But then I remember his voice telling me to leave. And I feel better. Because it wasnt me who left. It was him. The love is gone. But I stayed. Strong. Whole. True.
And now, every morning, I wake knowing the day ahead is mine. And no oneno Margaret Whitmorewill ever tell me how to live again.
