“Lyudmila,” my mother-in-law said to me, standing in the doorway of our bedroom, her voice flat, almost emotionless, as if she were reciting a bus timetable rather than throwing me out of my own home. I stood by the window, clutching a teacup, the rain outside a dreary autumn drizzlethe kind that seemed to whisper, *Youve already lost, but you keep going anyway.*
“What do you mean, not living here?” I asked, though inside, I already knew.
“You know exactly what I mean,” she replied, avoiding my gaze. “Ever since you stopped paying for my expenses…”
She didnt need to finish. I understood.
It had started years agothe slow, creeping realisation that the ground beneath me was shifting. My husband, Edward, worked for a large logistics firm, though his salary was, as he put it, “modest.” Meanwhile, through sheer determinationa quality Id foolishly believed he admiredId saved a decent sum. I never flaunted it, but when our flat, inherited from his grandmother, needed repairs and he muttered, *Well wait, save up,* I offered to cover it myself.
“Are you sure?” hed asked, hesitating.
“Of course,” Id said. “I just want us to be comfortable.”
That was the beginning of my “investments.” First the repairs, then a new kitchen, later a pram for our son. I didnt keep count. I thought we were a familythat what was mine was his. I was wrong.
Margaret, my mother-in-law, lived separately but visited more and more. Weekends at first, then weekdays. *To help with the baby. To chat.* I never objectedrespecting her age, trying to be polite. But soon, it was clear: she wasnt a guest. She was the mistress of the house.
She criticised everythinghow I fed our son, how I cleaned, what I wore. Once, eyeing a new blouse, she sniffed, *”Back in my day, we made sacks from fabric like that.”* I said nothing. My parents had been working-class too, but theyd taken pride in their work, in cleanliness, in dignity. Margaret, though, seemed to think anything beautiful was inherently false.
Then came the requests for money. Small at first*”Lydia, lend me for medicine,” “My pensions late,” “My phones broken, can you help?”* I gave without counting. Then larger: *”The roofs leaking,” “I need a new fridge,” “A wedding gift for my niece.”* I paid. Edward never said no to her. When I gently suggested boundaries, he shrugged. *”Shes just trying to help with the baby.”*
*Help.* Yes, she babysat, took him for walksbut always with the unspoken demand that I be eternally grateful. And I kept payingfor her dentist, her spa trips, her flats repairs, even a new telly. *”Peace is worth it,”* I told myself.
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 in the hallway, my heart hammering. *”What did you say?”*
She startled, then forced a laugh. *”Oh, Lydia, dont be so sensitive! Hes the image of Edward!”*
But he wasnt. Not a bit. He had my eyes, my fathers smilesomething everyone saw except Margaret. Or perhaps that was the point.
I didnt make a scene. But that night, I told Edward, *”Your mother doesnt babysit anymore.”*
*”Why? What happened?”*
*”She questioned whether our son is yours. Thats unforgivable.”*
He sighed. *”Shes just emotional. It was a joke.”*
*”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, tight-lipped. *”Lydia, I owe on the electric. Winters coming”*
*”You have a pension,”* I said. *”Savings, too. You always said you kept a nest egg.”*
Her face twisted. *”Youve changed.”*
*”No,”* I said. *”Ive just stopped pretending.”*
She left. Ten days later, Edward called. *”Youre really cutting her off?”*
*”Im not her keeper. Not after what she said to you.”*
*”She was joking!”*
*”That wasnt a joke. It was cruelty.”*
A pause. Then, quietly: *”Youve become so cold.”*
*”And youve become weak.”*
We didnt speak for three days.
Then came the morning Ill never forget. An ordinary startfeeding our son, getting ready for work. Edward left early, muttering about meetings. By afternoon, Margarets call came. *”Lydia, Edward and I have talked. Youre not welcome here anymore.”*
I returned home to find my key didnt fit. The locks had been changed. Our neighbour, spotting me with our son in my arms, whispered, *”Im so sorry, Lydia. They cleared your things out yesterday. Theyre in the basement.”*
I stood there, staring at the door. Behind itmy home. My books, our wedding photos, the cot Id paid for. All of it, gone.
I didnt cry. Just took a deep breath and walked away.
The first weeks were hell. I stayed with a friend, but her flat was cramped. I searched for a place, made calls, all while holding our son. No help came.
Edward went silent, save for one message passed through a mutual friend: *”Think about what youve done.”* I didnt reply.
Then I remembered my savings. Not all gone. I rented a small flatmodest, but clean, with windows overlooking a park. Bought a second-hand cot, a pram. Started again.
Three months passed. I found a better job. Our son grew happier. We read stories, walked in the park, slept curled together. 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 home?”*
I looked at our son, asleep in his cot, then out at the clear, cold night. *”No, Edward. Im not coming back.”*
*”Why? Were family!”*
*”Family doesnt throw you out. Doesnt doubt your child. You chose your mother. I chose myselfand our son.”*
A long silence. Then, *”What if I choose you now?”*
*”Too late,”* I said. *”Youve already shown me who matters.”*
Nearly a year on, we live in a small housemine, bought with what remained of my savings. Sometimes, I think of Margarets words*”Ever since you stopped paying”*and smile. Because Ive learned my worth isnt in what I spend on others, but in what I refuse to tolerate.
Edward still texts sometimes. Asks to meet. Says *”things are different now.”* But people dont changeonly circumstances do. And when they shift back, so will he.
I dont regret a thing.
Because now, Im free. And my son is growing up in a home where hes lovedwithout conditions, without doubts, without *”what ifs.”*
And thats everything.
