Three years ago my motherinlaw forced us out of the house with our baby, and today shes offended that I refuse to speak to her.
Im thirty, living in Paris, raising my son and doing everything I can to build a stable life. Yet a deep ache lingers because, three years back, a woman I considered family threw us out without a second thought. Now she cant understand why I no longer talk to her, and shes hurt by that.
Alexandre and I met during our first year of university. It was love at first sight no parties, no games, everything turned serious almost immediately. Then, unexpectedly, I found out I was pregnant. Despite the birthcontrol pill, the test showed two lines. Fear, panic and tears followed, but the idea of an abortion was unthinkable. Alexandre didnt run away; he proposed, and we married.
The problem was that we had nowhere to live. My parents live near Lyon, and from the age of seventeen Id been staying 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 the tworoom flat in Montreuil to her son. After we got married she graciously allowed us to stay there.
At first everything seemed fine. We studied, worked parttime, waited for our child. I handled the housework, cooked, and saved every cent. Then Élodie started visiting, not just to chat but to inspect. She opened closets, checked under the bed, ran a finger along the windowsill after removing her gloves. Pregnant, I scurried around with a mop to please her, but no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
Why isnt the towel centered? Bread crumbs on the kitchen rug! Youre not a wife, youre a disaster! Her criticism never stopped.
When our son Matthieu was born, things deteriorated further. I was exhausted from sleeping and nursing, yet she demanded surgicallevel 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 intervene. He tried, but Élodie was immovable. When she returned and saw the 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 went to live with my parents. He rose at six, attended classes, took a small job, and returned late at night. I tried to earn money online, but the income was almost nothing. Money was tight; we counted every euro and survived on egg noodles. Without my parents we wouldnt have made it. Neither would we have survived without each other.
Gradually things improved. We earned our diplomas, found steady work, and rented an apartment in Paris. Matthieu grew up, and we finally became a real family. Yet the wound remained.
Élodie still lives alone. The flat she once evicted us from now sits empty. She calls Alexandre from time to time, asks for updates on her grandson, and requests photos. He answers her, holding no grudge. I, however, feel betrayed. She shattered our lives when we were at our most vulnerable, abandoning us defenseless.
Its my apartment! I had the right! she says.
Perhaps she was legally entitled, but what about conscience, about the heart? Where were those when we found ourselves at the train station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not a vengeful person, but I dont have to forgive. 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.
