Three years ago my motherinlaw forced us out of the house with our child. Today shes offended that I refuse to speak to her.
Im thirty, living in Paris, raising my son and trying to build a stable life. Yet a deep ache stays with me because, three years back, a woman I considered family threw us out without remorse. Now she cant understand why I no longer address her, and she feels slighted.
Alexandre and I met during our first year at university. It was love at first sightno parties, no games; things turned serious quickly. Soon after, I discovered I was pregnant. Despite using the pill, the test showed two lines. Fear, panic and tears followed, but an abortion never crossed my mind. Alexandre didnt run away; he proposed, and we married.
The 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 since he was sixteen: his mother, Élodie, after remarrying, moved to Bordeaux with her new husband, leaving her tworoom Montreuil flat to her son. After our wedding she graciously allowed us to stay there.
At first everything seemed fine. We studied, worked parttime, awaited our baby. I handled cleaning, cooking and saved every cent. Then Élodie began visitingnot just to chat but to inspect. She opened cupboards, looked under the bed, removed her gloves to run a finger along the windowsill. Pregnant, I scurried around with a mop to please her, yet nothing I did was ever enough.
Why isnt the towel centered? Crumbs on the kitchen rug! Youre not a wife, youre a disaster!her criticism was relentless.
When our son Matthieu was born the situation worsened. Barely able to sleep and breastfeed, 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 a single speck of dust, youre out!
I begged Alexandre to talk to her. He tried, but Élodie was unmoving. When she returned and found her old boxes on the balcony untouchedbecause they werent minethe eruption began.
Pack your bags and go back to your parents! Alexandre will choose: stay with you or stay here.
Alexandre didnt betray me. He left with me for Lyon, and we stayed 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 we wouldnt have made it. Nor without our love.
Gradually things improved. We earned our diplomas, found steady work, and rented an apartment in Paris. Matthieu grew up, and we became a real family. The wound, however, remained.
Élodie still lives alone. The flat she evicted us from stands empty. She calls Alexandre occasionally, asks for news about her grandson, requests photos. He answers politely, holding no grudge. I, however, still feel betrayed. She shattered our lives when we were most vulnerable, leaving us defenseless.
Its my apartment! I had the right! she says.
Perhaps the legal right, yes. But what about conscience? Heart? Where were they when we arrived at the station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not bitter, but I dont feel I must forgive. And I will 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 Won’t Speak to Her.
