Three years ago my motherinlaw threw us out of the house with our baby, and now shes upset that I wont 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 still lingers because, three years ago, a woman I considered family forced us onto the street without a second thought, and today she cant understand why Ive stopped talking to her. Shes even offended by it.
Alexandre and I met during our first year at university. It was love at first sightno parties, no games; things got serious almost immediately. Then, unexpectedly, I found out I was pregnant. Despite being on the pill, the test showed two lines. Of course there was fear, panic, tears 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 since I was seventeen Id been staying in a student residence in Paris. Alexandre, on the other hand, had been living alone 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 we wed, she graciously allowed us to stay there.
At first everything went smoothly. We studied, worked parttime, and awaited our child. I handled the cleaning, cooking, and saved every euro. Everything changed when Élodie began visitingnot just to chat, but to inspect. She opened cupboards, looked under the bed, even ran a finger along the windowsill after removing her gloves. Pregnant, I scrambled around with a mop to please her, but no matter how hard I tried, it never seemed good enough.
Why isnt the towel centered? shed say. There are crumbs on the kitchen rug! Youre not a wife; youre a disaster! Her criticism was relentless.
When our son Matthieu was born, the situation deteriorated. I could barely sleep or breastfeed, and she demanded surgicallevel cleanliness. I scrubbed three times a week, yet 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 intervene. He tried, but Élodie was immovable. When she returned and found her old boxes on the balconyboxes I hadnt touched because they werent minethe explosion began.
Pack your bags and go back to your parents! Alexandre, decide: 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 support, we wouldnt have made it. And without each others love, we wouldnt have either.
Gradually things improved. We earned our diplomas, secured jobs, and rented an apartment in Paris. Matthieu grew up, and we finally became a real family. The wound, however, remained.
Élodie still lives alone; the flat she evicted us from is now empty. She calls Alexandre now and then, asking for news about her grandson and demanding photos. He replies politely and holds no grudge. I, on the other hand, feel betrayed. She shattered our lives when we were most vulnerable, leaving us defenseless.
Its my apartment! I had the right! she says.
Legally, perhaps she was right. Morally, what about conscience, heart, or compassion? Where were those when we found ourselves at a train station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not vengeful, but I dont have to forgive. I will never set foot in her life again.
