No, Mom. You wont visit us againneither today, tomorrow, nor next year. a tale of patience finally worn thin
*No, Mom. Youre not coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year* the story where endurance ran out forever.
I spent ages pondering how to open this narrative, and only two words kept surfacing: *brazen* and *silent collusion*. One belonged to my motherinlaw, the other to my husband. And in the middle, there was mea woman trying to be kind, gentle, politeuntil I realized that if I stayed silent, all that would be left of *our* house would be an empty box.
I never understood how someone can walk into anothers home and take what isnt theirs, as if everything inside belonged to them. Yet thats exactly what my motherinlaw did, and all for her daughtermy husbands sister.
Every time she visited, meat vanished from the freezer, meatball pots disappeared from the stove, and even my brandnew hair straightener, never used, was taken. Anitas hair is so curly, you stay at home, you dont need this, she later explained, without a hint of embarrassment.
I endured. I clenched my teeth. I told my husband. He shrugged. Shes my mother, she doesnt mean any harm. Well buy another.
The final straw came on our fifth wedding anniversary. We decided to celebrate with a quiet dinner for two, like in the old days. I picked out a dress; only the shoes were missing. I bought thembeautiful, expensive, the pair Id been dreaming of since last summer. I left the box in the bedroom, awaiting the special night.
But nothing went as planned.
That day I was delayed at work and asked my husband to pick up our daughter from daycare. He agreed, but an unexpected event arose and, instead of going, he called his mother. He gave her the keys so she could come in and look after little Maria.
When I arrived, I went straight to the bedroom and stopped dead. The box was gone.
Filipe, where are my new shoes? I asked, already knowing the answer.
How should I know? he shrugged.
Did your mother stop by?
Yes, she came for Maria, stayed a while, then left.
And the keys? I kept my voice steady.
I gave them to her. So?
I grabbed my phone and called her. She answered right away.
Good evening, I began, composed. I imagine you know why Im calling.
I have no idea, she replied, unruffled.
Where are my new shoes?
I gave them to Anita. You already have extra shoes, and she doesnt have anything decent for the endofyear party.
And, with that, *click*the line went dead. No remorse, no apology. Just silence.
My husband, as usual, said only, Well buy another pair, no stress. Its my mother.
I stood up, pulled him by the arm, and took him to the mall. In front of the display, I pointed to the one pair that had been flashing in ads for monthsa pair that nearly gave him a heart attack.
Leonor, thats half my salary! he exclaimed, pale.
You said wed buy them. So we did, I said firmly.
He paid, signing off on the price of his acquiescent silence.
The story didnt end there. On the drive home his phone rang. It was his mother: Ill be over today. I have bags of fresh herbs, my freezer is full. Ill leave them and come back in a month or two.
I saw him stare at the screen, lips pressed together. Then, for the first time, he dialed her number and, in a tone that left no room for argument, said:
Mother, youre not coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year. Your last help cost us far too much.
He hung up. I looked at him and, for the first time in a long while, felt that we truly were a familya home whose doors open only to those who respect it, not to those who steal.
