I thought Mum was preparing a flat as a gift for us. When the renovations were done, she simply moved out—away from Dad.
I’m only twenty-five. A month ago, I got married and, like any girl, dreamed of starting my new life with a clean slate—with my husband, in a cosy flat, surrounded by warmth and support. I always believed our family was rock-solid. Mum and Dad—the perfect pair, or so I thought. No shouting, no scandals, no affairs. They’d been together for over twenty years, and I grew up completely certain that love like theirs was real. But as it turned out, I’d been living in an illusion.
Right after the wedding, Mum announced she couldn’t stay with Dad anymore. No hysterics. No explanations. Just, *”I’m leaving.”* I thought I’d misheard. How? Why now? I tried to understand her, but I couldn’t.
My dad’s a quiet, caring man. Never drank, never smoked, never raised his voice at Mum or me. He worked his whole life to provide for us, took Mum everywhere, helped around the house—and then, suddenly… she decided this wasn’t the life she wanted. Said she was tired of being *”the maid,”* that she wanted *”to finally live for herself.”*
And here’s the worst part. Before the wedding, Mum had started renovating the old flat she’d inherited from my nan. Everything pointed to her preparing it for me and my husband. I truly believed that. I even picked out the kitchen colours, discussed furniture with her, dreamed of our little nest. She listened in silence, never promised anything, but never objected either. I thought it was all meant to be a surprise.
Dad was convinced the renovations were for us too. He just nodded, smiled, and said, *”Soon you’ll have your own place, and we might finally catch our breath.”* Everyone was sure Mum was giving us a gift. Everyone except her.
When the work was done, Mum packed her things and left. Told Dad she was gone for good and moved into that very flat. No thanks, no explanation, no looking back. And me? I stood there, frozen, refusing to believe this wasn’t just some awful nightmare.
I tried talking to her, explaining that my husband and I had nowhere to live. That we’d planned to start fresh in that flat. That my whole life, I’d believed she was our anchor. But her eyes were cold as ice.
*”I owe you nothing,”* she said evenly. *”It’s my flat. I inherited it. I worked, I renovated it, and I’ll live in it. Enough. I’m not the housemaid anymore. I’m done with cooking, cleaning, sacrificing. I just want to live—alone.”*
I wanted to scream. To remind her how many times I’d needed her, how Dad and I had carried her through her own struggles. To ask—what were we all those years? Just an obligation?
Dad crumbled. He didn’t beg, didn’t stop her. Just watched her go, like a man who’d lost his last shred of hope. He couldn’t fathom how the woman he’d spent half his life with could turn away so quietly, so coldly.
Now, my husband and I are living with his parents. It’s temporary, but I don’t know how long it’ll last. We’re hunting for a place, weighing options, but the hurt won’t fade. Not because Mum wouldn’t give us the flat—but because all this time, she’d been quietly resenting us, and we never noticed. Because she no longer sees us as family. Because betrayal, when it comes from the closest person, doesn’t just disappear.
Maybe one day I’ll understand. Maybe I’ll see courage in her choice. But right now? All I feel is emptiness. Mum shattered everything I’d believed in since childhood. And no renovation, no flat, is worth the crack that’s now forever between us.
