There came a knock at the door. I opened it to find my mother-in-law standing there, her face streaked with tears—turns out, the other woman had bled them dry.
Fifteen years ago, Victor and I were wed. From the very start, his mother made it clear we would never be friends. I accepted that. We built a life together, though children did not come quickly. Ten long years of waiting, hoping, praying… Finally, fate smiled upon us—first a son, then a daughter.
Life was good. Victor rose through the ranks to become director of a prominent firm. I devoted myself to the children, stepping away from work to care for them. My own mother lived far away in another city, so help was scarce. But my mother-in-law? In all those fifteen years, her disdain never wavered. To her, I remained an upstart, a clever trickster who had stolen her son. In her dreams, Victor was meant to marry a “proper girl,” one she had handpicked. But he chose me.
We carried on, raising our children while I ignored her barbs. Then, in an instant, everything crumbled.
I remember that day vividly. The children and I had just returned from the park. They fussed in the hall as I went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Then I noticed a sheet of paper on the side table. Even before I picked it up, dread settled in the pit of my stomach. The flat felt hollow—Victor’s things were gone.
Scrawled in his careless hand, the note read:
*”Forgive me. I’ve fallen for someone else. Don’t look for me. You’re strong—you’ll manage. This is best for everyone.”*
His phone was switched off. No call, no message. Just gone. Leaving me alone with two small children.
I didn’t know where he was or who this “someone else” might be. Desperate, I rang his mother. I hoped for answers, for some shred of comfort. Instead, her voice dripped with spite:
*”You brought this on yourself. I always knew it would end this way. You should have too.”*
I faltered. What had I done wrong? Why such hatred? But there was no time to dwell—the children needed feeding, and we had barely a penny to our name. Victor had taken everything.
I couldn’t work—who would mind the children? Then I remembered the academic papers I’d once ghostwritten. That was how we scraped by. Day after day, fighting for bread. Six months passed with no word from Victor.
Then, one rainy autumn evening, as I tucked the children in, the doorbell rang. My pulse jumped. Who’d come so late? A neighbour, perhaps?
I opened the door—and froze.
There stood my mother-in-law, soaked to the bone, eyes red from weeping.
*”May I come in?”* she whispered. Without thinking, I stepped aside.
We sat at the kitchen table. Between choked sobs, she told me the truth. Victor’s new love was nothing but a swindler. She’d emptied his accounts, taken loans in his name, and vanished with every valuable in reach.
He was ruined. The grand house she’d promised was a lie, the dream a sham. His mother, too, had suffered—she’d remortgaged her home for his sake, and now the bank threatened eviction.
*”We’ve nothing left,”* she murmured. *”Please… help us. I’ve nowhere else to go.”*
Her eyes were those of a beaten dog, pleading for shelter, even briefly.
My fingers clenched. Memories flashed—her sharp words, the scorn in her gaze, all those years of loneliness in her house, where I felt a stranger in my own marriage. And now she begged for mercy?
Part of me wanted to turn her away. To say, *”Leave. You’re owed nothing.”* But another part—the part that remembered kindness, that thought of my children—wouldn’t allow cruelty.
I sat silent, tears brimming.
What to choose? Vengeance or compassion?
Before the decision came, I stood, filled the kettle, and set a steaming cup before her.
Because sometimes being human means choosing not with the heart, but with conscience.
