“You have a month to move out!” declared my mother-in-law. And my husband… he backed her up.
Arthur and I had been together for two years, and by all accounts, everything was perfect. We weren’t in a rush to marry, living in his mother’s flat, and I truly believed I’d struck gold with my mother-in-law. She had always been warm, composed, restrained—never meddling, never nagging. I respected her, valued her advice, called her “Mum,” and genuinely thought we had a good relationship.
When we decided to marry, she covered all the expenses. My own parents, unfortunately, were in dire financial straits at the time, contributing only a token gesture to the wedding. I was grateful. I was sure we were a real family. But how wrong I was.
A week after the wedding, we sat in the kitchen over tea when she said, perfectly calm, without a trace of shame:
*”Well, my dears, I’ve done my part. Raised my son, educated him, set him on his feet—even found him a good wife. Threw you a lovely wedding. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got a month to leave my flat. You’re a family now, so you’ll sort out your own problems. Don’t fret—it’ll be tough at first, but you’ll learn to budget, plan, and figure things out.”*
The floor might as well have vanished beneath me. I forced a laugh.
*”Mum, you can’t be serious?”*
She nodded.
*”Quite. I’m 56—I want to live for myself. I’m tired of being ‘someone’s mother,’ ‘the landlady,’ ‘the woman who saves everyone.’ No more. And if you decide to have children, let’s be clear: don’t rely on me. I’m a grandmother, not a nanny. Visit any time, but my life is my own now. I hope you understand… when you’re my age.”*
I couldn’t believe it. We’d *just* married! We hadn’t even caught our breath from the wedding chaos, and she was tossing us out. Her son—my *husband*—was co-owner of that flat, as stated in the prenup. He had every legal right to half of it. And yet, she demanded we leave.
But the worst part? Arthur… he just nodded. No argument, no defense. He didn’t even try to reason with her. He stood, opened his laptop, and started browsing rental listings. Then he said:
*”Well, if that’s her decision… We’ll manage, Ellen. Don’t worry. We’ll find something decent—maybe I’ll switch jobs. It’ll be fine.”*
I bit back tears. Inside, I was boiling. My parents couldn’t help us—fine—but they’d never have thrown us out. Why was his mother so selfish?
I wanted to scream. We’d barely begun our life together, and she’d coldly shoved us aside.
Later, I tried talking to Arthur alone, explaining how hurt I was. He just shrugged.
*”Her right, her flat. She wants to live alone. I get it. Let’s not make a scene.”*
That’s when I first felt the chill between us—ice down my spine. I realized then: he had no backbone. He wasn’t a husband; he was a son. And as long as she called the shots, he’d obey.
And me? I was expendable.
A month passed. We rented a cramped one-bed flat on the outskirts, most of my paycheck swallowed by rent. Arthur switched jobs, staying late most nights. Now, I sit at the dim kitchen table, staring out the window, wondering: *Was I ever truly theirs?*
I tried—really. I cooked, cleaned, did everything to make them happy. But in the end, they were family. And I? Just someone they could kick out.
Yes, I’m angry. Yes, it hurts. And still… maybe this trial will prove Arthur and I are meant to be. Or not.
But one thing I’ll never understand: what kind of mother throws her son out a month after his wedding, knowing he’s unprepared, knowing he has no safety net?
Or does love end where selfishness begins?
