Three years ago, my motherinlaw threw us out with our child, and now shes upset that I refuse to speak to her.
Im thirty, living in Paris, raising my son and trying to build a stable life, yet the pain still lingers. Three years back, a woman I considered family kicked us out without remorse, and today she cant understand why I no longer talk to hershes even hurt by it.
Alexandre and I met during our first year at university. It was love at first sight; there were no parties or games, everything turned serious quickly. Then, unexpectedly, I became pregnant. Despite the pill, the test showed two lines. Fear, panic, tears followed, but abortion never crossed my mind. Alexandre didnt run awayhe proposed, and we married.
The problem was that we had nowhere to live. My parents live near Lyon, and Id been in a student residence in Paris since I was seventeen. Alexandre had been on his own for sixteen years: his mother, Élodie, after remarrying, moved to Bordeaux with her new husband, leaving her tworoom Montreuil apartment to her son. After our wedding she generously allowed us to stay there.
At first everything went smoothly. We studied, worked parttime, and awaited our baby. I handled the housework, cooking, and saved every penny. Things fell apart when Élodie began visitingnot just to chat but to inspect. She opened cupboards, looked under the bed, ran a finger along the windowsill after removing her gloves. Pregnant, I ran around with a mop to please her, but no matter how hard I tried, it never seemed good enough.
Why isnt the towel centered? crumbs on the kitchen rug! Youre not a wife; youre a disaster!her criticisms never stopped.
When our son Matthieu was born, the pressure intensified. I could barely sleep and breastfeed, yet she demanded surgical cleanliness. I cleaned thoroughly three times a week, still never enough. One day she declared:
Ill be back in a week. If I see a single speck of dust, youre both out!
I begged Alexandre to confront her. He tried, but Élodie was adamant. When she returned and found her old boxes 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 betray me. He left with me for Lyon, and we lived with my parents. He rose at six, attended classes, took a small job, and returned late. I tried to earn money online, but the income was negligible. Money was tight; we counted every euro and survived on egg noodles. Without my parents help we wouldnt have made itnor without each other.
Gradually things improved. We earned our diplomas, found jobs, and rented an apartment in Paris. Matthieu grew up, and we became a real family. Yet the wound remained.
Élodie still lives alone. The apartment she evicted us from is now empty. She calls Alexandre occasionally, asks about her grandson, wants photos. He replies politely, holds no grudge. I do. To me, it was a betrayal. She shattered our lives when we were most vulnerable, leaving us defenseless.
Its my apartment! I had the right! she says.
Perhaps she was legally right, but what about conscience? Heart? Where were they when we arrived at the station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not vengeful, but I dont have to forgive. And Ill never set foot in her life again.
Three Years Ago, My Mother-in-Law Kicked Us Out with Our Child – Now She’s Upset That I’m Ignoring Her.
