“If cooking is such a burden for you, maybe you should leavewell manage just fine without you,” my mother-in-law declared, with my husband nodding in agreement.
“I never imagined my life could unravel so quickly. The betrayal didnt come from strangers but from the people I trusted most. One conversation with Eleanor Whitmoremy mother-in-lawand I knew I could rely only on myself. It all began, oddly enough, with a simple remark: ‘Mum needs to rest. Shes exhausted. Couldnt you stay somewhere else for a few weeks so she isnt disturbed?’ Thats what my husband said. The man I dreamed of growing old with. The one I cooked for, cared for, supported in everything. And this is where it led?”
Jamesmy husbandwas away on yet another work trip. He worked as a technician in factories, often travelling across England. I never complainedhe earned good money, and we lived comfortably. We stayed in my two-bedroom flat, inherited from my aunt. He was content, and so was I. But every time he left, his mother would arrive unannounced. Eleanor Whitmore. No knock, no warning. Shed appear on the doorstep like a storm, imposing her rules immediately: what to cook, how to tidy, where to store the linens, which brands to buy.
I stayed quiet. I tried to be polite. I told myself she was elderly, lonelyId offer kindness. But instead of gratitude, all I got were complaints. ‘You cant even make a proper soup,’ ‘Theres dust everywhere,’ ‘How will you raise children if you cant even peel potatoes?’ Then it got worse. She demanded I leave. My own home. So sheso weary and miserablecould ‘finally get some sleep.’ Sleep! In my flat! Where would I go? A friends place? A hotel?
So I called James, trembling with hope. I told him everything. I waited for his support. And he wasnt even surprised. ‘Mum really needs the rest. Be a love, just go along with it. Stay elsewhere for a bit, and well talk later’ He didnt ask where Id go. He didnt offer to pay for a room. Not a word to remind me I was his wife, the one who kept our home, the mother of his future children.
That was the end. I understoodthere was no love left. Just a convenient woman, good for cooking, cleaning, and serving. No tenderness, no respect. I told him, ‘If you want to stay with your mother, stay. But I want a divorce.’ He didnt argue. Silence. A few days later, he returned, packed his things quietly, and left to join her in her hometown. And I stayed. In my flat. Alone. Empty.
I didnt cry. I was past that. My tears had dried the day he chose her over me. Now, I live. Peacefully. No arguments. No criticism. No pain. Sometimes, a thought of him tightens my chest. But I remember his voice when he told me to leave. And it gets easier. Because I wasnt the one who left. He did. The love left. I stayed. Strong. Whole. True.
And now, every morning, I wake up knowing the day is mine. And no oneno Eleanor Whitmorewill ever tell me how to live again.
