“You’ve got a month to move out!” said my mother-in-law. And my husband… he backed her up.
Arthur and I had been together for two years, and by all appearances, everything was perfect. We weren’t in a rush to get married, living in his mum’s flat, and I truly thought I’d lucked out with her. She was warm, calm, reserved—never meddled, never nagged, never forced herself on us. I respected her, took her advice, called her “Mum,” and believed we had great relationship.
When we decided to marry, she covered all the costs. My parents, unfortunately, were in dire straits at the time and could only chip in symbolically for the wedding. I was grateful. I was certain we were a real family. But how wrong I was.
A week after the wedding, we were in the kitchen having tea when, cool as anything, without a hint of hesitation, she said:
“Right then, my dears, my job’s done. I’ve raised my son, educated him, got him settled—even found him a good wife. Paid for the wedding, too. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got a month to move out. You’re a family now, so you’ll solve your own problems. Don’t fret—it’ll be hard at first, but you’ll learn to budget, plan, figure things out.”
I was stunned. It felt like the ground had dropped from under me. I tried to laugh it off:
“Mum, you’re joking, right?”
She just nodded.
“Dead serious. I’m 56—it’s time I lived for myself. I’m tired of being ‘someone’s mum,’ ‘the landlady,’ ‘the woman who sorts everything out.’ No more. And if you decide on kids—don’t count on me. I’ll be a grandmother, not a nanny. Pop round anytime, but my life’s my own now. You’ll understand… when you reach my age.”
I couldn’t believe it. We’d only just married! The wedding chaos hadn’t even settled, and she was kicking us out. Her son—my husband—was co-owner of the flat, stated in the prenup. He had legal rights to half. Yet here she was, demanding we leave.
But the worst part? Arthur… he just nodded. Didn’t argue, didn’t stand up for us. Didn’t even try to talk to her. He opened his laptop and started scrolling rental listings, then said:
“Well, if that’s her decision… We’ll manage, Ellen. Don’t worry. We’ll find something decent—might have to switch jobs, but it’ll be fine.”
I held back tears. Inside, I was seething. My parents couldn’t help us—fair enough—but they’d never have thrown us out. Why was his mum so selfish?
I wanted to scream. We’d only just begun, just started building a life. And she’d coldly throw us out like rubbish.
Later, I tried talking to Arthur alone, explaining how hurt I was. He just shrugged.
“Her right, her flat. She wants to live for herself. I get it. Let’s not make a scene.”
That’s when I felt the first chill between us. A shiver down my spine. I realised—he had no position. He wasn’t a husband, just a son. And as long as she called the shots, he’d obey. Where did that leave me?
On the outside.
A month passed. We rented a tiny one-bed flat on the outskirts. Nearly my entire salary goes on rent. Arthur switched jobs, stays late. I sit in the dim kitchenette most evenings, staring out the window, wondering—was I ever really part of their family?
I tried. Cooked, cleaned, did everything to make them happy. But in the end? They were blood. I was just the one who could be shown the door.
Yes, I’m angry. Yes, it hurts. And yet… maybe this test will prove whether Arthur and I are truly a pair. Or not at all.
But one thing I still don’t get: what kind of loving mother kicks her son out a month after his wedding, knowing he’s not ready, knowing he’s got no safety net?
Or does love end where selfishness begins?
