Three years ago my motherinlaw threw us out onto the street with our baby, and now shes offended that I refuse to speak to her.
Im thirty, living in Paris, raising my son and doing my best to build a stable life, yet the ache hasnt faded. The woman I once considered family forced us out without a second thought, and today she cant understand why Ive stopped answering her callsshes even hurt about it.
Alexandre and I met during our first year at university. It was an instant connection, no parties, no games; things turned serious very quickly. Then, unexpectedly, I found out I was pregnant. Despite the pill, the test showed two lines. Fear, panic and tears followed, but the idea of an abortion was out of the question. Alexandre didnt run away; he proposed, and we married.
The trouble was that we had nowhere to live. My parents live near Lyon, and since I was seventeen Id been in a student residence in Paris. Alexandre had been on his own since he was sixteen; his mother, Élodie, after remarrying, moved to Bordeaux with her new husband, leaving her tworoom Montreuil flat to his son. After we wed, she graciously allowed us to stay there.
At first everything seemed fine. We studied, held side jobs, awaited our child. I took care of the house, cooked, saved every cent. Then Élodie started dropping by, not just for conversation but to inspect. She opened our cupboards, looked under the bed, even lifted a glove to run a finger along the windowsill. Pregnant, I scurried about with a mop to please her, yet nothing ever met her standards.
Why isnt the towel centered? Crumbs on the kitchen rug! Youre not a wife, youre a disaster! Her criticisms were relentless.
When our son Matthieu arrived, the pressure intensified. Between sleep and breastfeeding, she demanded surgical cleanliness. I cleaned thoroughly three times a week, but it never sufficed. One day she declared:
Ill be back in a week. If I see a single speck of dust, youre out!
I begged Alexandre to intervene. He tried, but Élodie was unmoved. When she returned and saw the old boxes shed left on the balconyboxes I hadnt touched because they werent minethe explosion happened.
Pack your things and go back to your parents! Alexandre must choose: stay with you or stay here.
Alexandre didnt abandon me. He left with me for Lyon, where we stayed with my parents. He rose at six, attended classes, took a parttime job, and came home late. I attempted online work, but the income was negligible. Money was scarce; we counted every euro and survived on eggandpasta dishes. Without my parentsand without our lovewe wouldnt have made it.
Gradually things improved. We earned our diplomas, secured jobs, rented an apartment in Paris. Matthieu grew, and we became a true family. Yet the wound remained.
Élodie still lives alone; the flat she evicted us from is now empty. She occasionally phones Alexandre, asking for news of her grandson and for photos. He answers politely, holding no grudge. I, however, feel betrayed. She shattered our lives when we were most vulnerable, left us defenseless.
This is my apartment! I had the right! she says.
Legally she may be correct, but what about conscience, about heart? Where were they when we found ourselves at the station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not vengeful, but I dont have to forgive. I will never set foot in her world again.
Three Years Ago, My Mother-in-Law Kicked Us Out with Our Child – Now She’s Upset That I Won’t Speak to Her!
