Three years ago, my motherinlaw kicked us out, leaving me alone with my child. Now shes upset 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. Three years back, a woman I considered family threw us out without a second thought, and today she cant understand why Ive stopped talking to hershes even offended by it.
Alexandre and I met during our first year at university. It was love at first sightno parties, no games, everything turned serious quickly. Then, unexpectedly, I found out I was pregnant. Despite the pill, the test showed two lines. Fear, panic, tears followed, but the idea of an abortion was unthinkable. Alexandre didnt run away; he proposed, and we married.
Our problem 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 for sixteen years: his mother, Élodie, after remarrying, moved to Bordeaux with her new husband, leaving her tworoom Montreuil flat to her son. After we wed, she graciously agreed that we could stay there.
At first everything seemed fine. We studied, worked parttime, and waited for our baby. I handled the housework, cooked, and saved every penny. Then Élodie started visitingnot just to chat, but to inspect. She opened cupboards, looked under the bed, even slipped a finger across 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 enough.
Why isnt the towel centered? There are crumbs on the kitchen rug! Youre not a wife; youre a disaster!her criticisms were relentless.
When our son Matthieu was born, the situation worsened. I was exhausted from sleep deprivation and breastfeeding, yet she demanded surgical cleanliness. I cleaned thoroughly three times a week, but it never satisfied her. One day she declared:
Ill be back in a week. If I see even a speck of dust, youre out!
I begged Alexandre to confront her. He tried, but Élodie was unmoving. When she returned and saw her old boxes on the balconyboxes I hadnt touched because they werent minethe explosion happened.
Pack your bags 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 stayed with my parents. He woke at six, attended classes, took a small job, and returned late. I attempted online work, but earnings were minimal. Money was scarce; we counted every euro and survived on egg noodles. Without my parents, we wouldnt have made itnor without our love.
Gradually things improved. We earned our diplomas, found steady 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 flat she forced us out of is now empty. She calls Alexandre occasionally, asks about her grandson, requests photos. He replies politely, holding no grudge. I, however, still feel betrayed. She shattered our lives when we were most vulnerable, leaving us defenseless.
This is my apartment! I had the right! she says.
Perhaps she had the legal right, but what about conscience? What about the heart? Where were they when we arrived at the station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not a vengeful person, but I dont have to forgive. And I will never set foot in her life again.
Three Years Ago, My Mother-in-Law Threw Us Out with Our Child—Now She’s Upset That I’m Ignoring Her!
