“You have a month to move out of my flat!” declared my mother-in-law.
In a quiet market town on the southern outskirts of Yorkshire, where ageing brick cottages guard the warmth of generations past, my life was upended by those words—shattering every dream I had of a happy marriage. I, Catherine, had lived two loving years with Alfred, and when we decided to wed, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. His mother, Margaret Whitmore, had always seemed kind-hearted and understanding. But her ultimatum after the wedding struck me like a blow I still haven’t recovered from.
I’d always got on well with Margaret. Heeded her advice, respected her opinions, and she’d returned the kindness. Never once did she meddle or scold. I counted myself fortunate—after all, the tales of wicked mothers-in-law had passed me by. When we planned the wedding, my parents, tight on funds, could only spare a pittance. Margaret, though, covered nearly all of it, and I was endlessly grateful. The day was like something from a storybook, and I truly believed only joy lay ahead.
Yet no sooner had we returned to her spacious three-bedroom flat—where Alfred and I had been living—than she called us in for a quiet word. Her voice was calm, but the words struck like thunder. My chest tightened.
“Children, I’ve done my duty,” she began, firm as winter stone. “I raised Alfred, saw him educated, helped with your wedding. Don’t take it ill, but you’ve a month to find your own place. You’re married now—time to stand on your own feet. It won’t be easy, but you’ll learn to manage. As for me, I mean to live for myself at last.”
I went still, hardly believing it. Then she went on, and each word cut deeper.
“And don’t look to me for help with grandchildren. I’ve given my son my life, and I’ll not be your nursemaid. You’ll always be welcome here, but a grandmother’s not a servant. I ask you not to judge me. You’ll understand when you’re my age.”
I was numb. My world had collapsed between one breath and the next. How could she do this? Alfred and I had only just begun—and she’d cast us out while keeping this great empty flat to herself? Anger, hurt, betrayal churned inside me. Alfred was co-owner of the place! And her words about grandchildren—that finished me. Most grandmothers longed for them, yet she’d dismissed them outright, like some dreadful burden. It was cruel.
The worst of it? Alfred agreed. Without a murmur of protest, he set at once to hunting for lodgings and extra work. His meekness wounded me more than Margaret’s decree. I looked at the man I loved and scarcely knew him. How could he accept this so easily? Why wouldn’t he defend us?
My parents had nothing to spare—their modest earnings barely covered their own needs. I felt abandoned by all. Why was Margaret so selfish? She’d keep her comforts while we scraped by in some rented room, counting every penny? I couldn’t bear the injustice. We were just starting—and she’d torn the ground from under us.
That night, I lay awake, tears slipping down. I remembered how proud I’d been of our closeness, how I’d trusted her. Now she’d shown her true face. That rubbish about “living for herself”—as if we’d asked for the moon! We never expected her to keep us forever, but to toss us out a month after the wedding? It was too much.
Alfred, busy with his searches, never noticed my grief. When I tried to speak of it, he’d brush me off: “Mum’s right, Cathy. We’ve got to learn to manage.” His indifference gutted me. I was losing not just our home, but my husband—who’d chosen his mother’s will over our shared dreams. What would become of us? How could we endure if he wouldn’t even stand with me?
My heart split between rage and fear. I wanted to shout at Margaret, demand fairness—but what good would it do? Her mind was made, and Alfred’s compliance left me utterly alone. Now we must start from nothing, while she enjoys her freedom in that empty flat. The bitterness gnaws at me still. I don’t know if I can ever forgive her—or him—for stealing the foundation of our new life.
