**The Late Awakening of a MotherinLaw**
When everyone else had gone, my motherinlaw finally recalled usonly when it was too late.
Ive been with Louis for more than a decade, having married him at twentyfive. He isnt an only child; two older brothers have long since settled into careers, homes, familiesthe pictureperfect trio, as they say. Their mother, Geneviève Lefèvre, is a hardhearted woman who never hides behind anyone. She raised the three boys alone, never bowing to anyone.
From the moment we got engaged, I sensed a special hostility from her toward me. Nothing overt, but her silences at dinner, sideways glances, and calculated oversights spoke volumes. I played it cool. Perhaps I hadnt met her expectations, or perhaps she refused to let go of her youngest.
Louis was her rock. After the older brothers left the nest, he stayed to help with errands, medical appointments, paperwork. Then I arrived, and everything changed.
I tried everything to win her over: slowcooked meals, invitations to celebrations, thoughtful gifts. I even attempted to call her mom, but the word stuck in my throat. She kept a chilly distance, and I felt like an outsider in the family.
When our son Gabriel was born, Geneviève showed up more oftena brief respite. Yet when the older siblings brought their own grandchildren, our child faded into the background. She spent Christmas at their houses, called them weekly, and left us in the shadows. The worst part was her systematic forgetting of my birthday unless Louis reminded her; no card, no message. I suffered, then accepted that not everyone gets two mothers.
Years slipped by. A modest but respectable life. Our daughter Élodie arrived. Louis worked; I cared for the kids. My motherinlaw lingered at the edge of our worldfar away, with rare visits. We never forced anything.
Last year her husband passed away. The blow shattered her. Doctors, antidepressants, a diagnosis of senile depression. The older brothers visited once, dropped off groceries and then nothing. We made occasional trips to her Paris apartmentmore than they did, though still infrequent.
Then, in midDecember, she invited us to New Years Eve. I need you, she whispered. I accepted; you dont abandon someone vulnerable.
I was preparing foie gras, arranging the yule log, while she sighed on the sofa. Will François and Mathieu be coming? I asked. She shrugged, Whats the point?
Midnight neared. Suddenly she sat up. Sit down. I have a proposal. Her voice trembled. I asked my other daughtersinlaw to houseshare with me. They said no. So move in here. In return, Ill bequeath the flat to you.
A shock. Years of indifference, now, because the others left her, she turns to me? As if a threeroom Parisian could erase two decades of coldness?
Louis promised to think it over. In the car, I broke downnot with screams, but with a knotted voice:
Listen, Im no saint. I wont live with the woman who treated me like a ghost, who never attended her grandchildrens school plays. This sudden affection shes just scared of dying alone. Why should we repay with our lives what she denied us?
Its my mother he murmured.
A mother is supposed to comfort, not pick favorites. Shes written us out of her family story, now reaching for the ones she favours.
He fell silent. I knew his anguish, but he understood me.
We never returned to Rue de Rivoli. Only a few cold calls. She blames us for her disappointment. I wonder what right we have to expect anythingjust a smile bought with square meters?
No. Dignity isnt for sale. If youre nothing on sunny days, dont become a shield against the shadows.
It isnt revenge, just the painful lesson of choosing those who truly choose you.
