Happy Souls Always Wear a Smile

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 1

You know how happy people always seem to have a smile? Well, Laura was staring out of her kitchen window in Manchester as a light summer rain drummed against the panes. The sun had peeked out a bit, but the drops kept falling, gentle enough to make you want a cuppa. Shed just gotten home from work and was thinking about whipping up dinner while keeping an eye on the weather.

She kept replaying the thought that, once Emma grew up, shed start dating someone. And she wasnt thrilled about the bloke Emma was with Mark. He was a few years older, seemed a bit shady, never really looked her in the eye. Laura wondered how to bring it up with Emma. Shes really falling for him for the first time, she thought. If I ruin this relationship Ill become her numberone enemy. I tried hinting that Mark isnt right for her, but she just brushed it off. If only I knew the right way to say it.

Laura had raised Emma on her own; shed never married. It just happened that way. Back when Laura was in her third year at university, she dated Tom, another student. He never finished his degree got expelled at the end of the third year. Laura was actually relieved because shed discovered she was pregnant and wanted to tell him.

Dont try to make something up, Tom snapped when she brought it up. How am I supposed to know its my child? I dont want any kids, he muttered before walking out.

Laura was stunned. She hadnt even managed to explain that Tom was the only man shed ever been with. Hed just vanished, never even looked in her direction at university, always flitting around with other girls. Then the university kicked him out.

Emma, somethings wrong, Margaret, Emmas grandmother, asked when she saw the girl sobbing on her bedroom floor.

Somethings happened, Mum, Tom left me and Im pregnant, Emma blurted out.

Mum, what? I told you a dozen times to think with your head, and you Now listen. Youre in your third year, you need to finish your degree, not raise a child. A baby will ruin your life and Im not going to help you. You cant rely on me, Margaret said, her tone sharp as a winter wind. Go to the clinic, talk to a doctor. Youre an adult now; youve got to own your choices.

Margarets cold, indifferent stare cut deeper than any words. Laura realised there was no help coming from her own mother.

The next day Laura headed to the GP. The waiting room was nearly empty; a young pregnant woman sat with her sixyearold daughter. When the door opened and the next patient left, the mother rose, clutching her belly.

Hold on a sec, love, Ill be right back, she said, disappearing into the consultation room.

The little girl stayed beside Laura. Kids get bored in hospitals, so the girl started looking around at the posters, then turned to Laura. She had freckles on her nose, light hair, and was fidgeting with her feet. Their eyes met and the child gave a shy smile.

Auntie, why do you look so sad? Are you feeling ill? she asked.

No, not ill just, Laura tried not to explain her adult worries to a child.

Do you have kids? the girl asked.

No Laura replied.

Aww, my mum says kids are happiness. Im her happiness, the girl giggled. Sometimes I get scolded when Im cheeky, but she still says Im her joy. She also says we should always smile and never cry. Yesterday Mishka tugged my braid and I burst into tears, felt terrible. Mum said I should smile, so I did. Then Mishka gave me a candy for smiling. Now were friends again.

Laura felt a warmth spread through her chest. A childs honesty can hit you right where it counts.

What am I doing here? It doesnt matter that Tom left, or that Margarets against me. I wont let any of that stop me, she thought.

As the mother emerged, she and the girl smiled at each other, hand in hand. The simple, quiet joy between them gave Laura a sudden burst of courage. She rushed out of the clinic, her legs carrying her straight to Kate, Emmas paternal grandmother. Even though Margaret hadnt spoken to Kate since the divorce, Laura still visited the old lady, who adored her granddaughter.

Give birth, dear. If your mums against it, Ill help you. You can even stay with me. Youll manage, and Ill be there for everything. Dont carry guilt on your shoulders; youll thank me later, Grandma Kate said, patting Emmas head.

Laura woke from the memory, speaking aloud, Grandma was right. Emma is my happiness, my life, my everything. I cant imagine living without her.

She heard the click of the frontdoor lock Emma was home. Emma peeked into the hallway, eyes red from crying.

Love, whats happened? Sit down and tell me, Laura said, pulling her onto a kitchen chair.

Mark? Emma whispered, then burst into fresh tears.

Laura didnt know what to do, so she handed Emma a glass of water. Emma drank, and Laura soothed her shoulder, holding her tight. A wave of tears rose in Lauras own eyes. Time seemed to stand still, but eventually Emmas crying eased, her eyes swollen but calmer.

Emma confessed that Mark was married, his wife living in another city. Shed learned it when his wife showed up unexpectedly, grabbed his phone while he was in the bath, read their messages and found Emmas number.

Laura didnt see tragedy in that, oddly felt a little relief that the truth was out. She trusted her gut that Mark was all smoke and mirrors, and she was convinced Emma would find a real love soon.

Did she call you? Laura asked.

Yes, she asked to meet at a café. Marks wife didnt tell him shed found out about us. Shes quite nice, not dramatic. She just asked him to leave us alone because she has two kids. It was like a bolt from the blue! Emma vented, wiping her cheeks.

Dont blame yourself, love. Hes a twisted sort, and thank God the truth came out. If youd known he was married, you wouldnt have kept seeing him, right? Laura replied.

Exactly, Mum. I told his wife I wont speak to him again, and Ive blocked him, Emma said firmly.

Good job, sweetheart, Laura praised.

The pain of seeing another jerk in her life stung, but Laura knew it was just one of many shed faced.

Did he try to call you? Laura asked.

He did, but I told him Im over it, and Ive put him on the blacklist, Emma answered.

Youve done the right thing, Laura said, though Emmas fresh tears hinted the hurt wasnt fully gone.

Then Emma whispered, voice shaking, Mum, I Im pregnant

What how far along? Margaret asked, trying to stay calm. The question tore at a part of her shed long buried.

About two months, Emma murmured, eyes dropping.

Those words struck Lauras heart like a cold punch. Everything was looping back. She stared at her grownup daughter, the one shed never let break, and realised Emma needed her now more than ever.

Itll be alright, love. Give birth, and Ill help you. This child is our grandchild, and well love them together. Ive got your back, Laura promised.

Youre the best, Mum. I knew youd say that, Emma smiled through tears.

Nothings going to stop us, Laura replied.

Months later Laura stood in the living room, watching Emma cradling a tiny baby boy wrapped in a soft beige blanket with a blue ribbon. The house was festooned with balloons and flowers, thanks to Grandma Kates effort. The cot was set up, a stroller beside it, and a heap of rattles waiting. Laura and Emma exchanged grins, feeling that warm glow of joy that only comes when everything finally clicks.

Because, you know, the happy ones always keep smiling.

“My Mum’s Moving in Because She’s Ill – And You’ll Be Caring For Her!” Announced Paul to Sarah “Excuse me?” Sarah slowly put down her phone, the one she’d been using to check her work messages. Paul stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded across his chest. He looked as if he’d just made a final, unchallengeable decree. “I said, Mum will be living with us for a while. She needs constant help. The doctor said at least two or three months, maybe longer.” Sarah felt something inside her tighten, slowly but inexorably. “And when did you decide this?” she asked, keeping her voice even. “I spoke to my sister and the doctor this morning. It’s all settled.” “So, the three of you decided—and I’m just supposed to be told and agree?” Paul frowned—not so much in anger, more in mild surprise that she was resisting at all. “Come on, Sarah. It’s my mum. Who else is going to take her? My sister’s in Manchester with her kids and job… Our house is big, and you’re home most days…” “I work five days a week, Paul. Full time. Nine to seven, sometimes later. You know that too.” “So what? Mum’s not demanding. She just needs someone around—to give her medicine, heat up her food, help her to the loo… You’ll manage.” Sarah looked at her husband and felt a strange numbness in her chest. Not anger yet—just this cold, painfully clear realisation: he truly believed this was normal. That her job, her tiredness, her free time—all of that was secondary to “Mum’s needs.” “Did you look into having a carer?” she asked quietly. Paul grimaced. “You know what that costs. A good carer starts at £3,500 a month. Where would we get that kind of money?” “Did you consider unpaid leave? Or maybe going part-time for a bit?” He looked at her as if she’d suggested jumping off the roof. “Sarah, I have a responsible job. They’d never let me off for two or three months. And anyway—I’m not a nurse. I don’t know how to give jabs or check blood pressure or keep to a schedule…” “And I do?” she asked. She didn’t raise her voice—just asked. Calmly. Paul hesitated. For the first time that evening, it seemed, he realised this conversation wasn’t following his script. “You’re a woman,” he said finally, with such a heartfelt belief that Sarah almost laughed. “It’s instinctive. You’re always better with poorly people.” She nodded slowly—more to herself than to him. “Instinct, is it.” “Well… yes.” Sarah placed her phone screen-down on the table. Looked at her hands. Her fingers were trembling ever so slightly. “Fine,” she said. “Here’s what we’ll do. You take unpaid leave for two months. I’ll keep working. We’ll look after your mum together. I’ll help as much as I can in the evenings and weekends. You take days. Deal?” Paul’s mouth opened. Then closed. “Sarah… are you serious?” “Absolutely.” “But I just said—they won’t let me!” “Then let’s hire a carer. I’ll split the cost 50-50. Or, if you think I earn less, 60-40. But I am not shouldering full responsibility for your mum’s care, on top of my own job. I’m not.” A heavy, sticky silence fell. The ticking of the kitchen clock sounded unusually loud. Paul coughed. “So you’re refusing, then?” “No,” Sarah met his gaze. “I’m refusing to become a free, full-time carer while keeping up my own workload—and without even being asked for my opinion. That’s different.” He stared at her a long time, as though trying to decide if she was joking. “You do understand she’s my mum?” he asked, and now his voice was wounded—the deep, thick hurt of a grown man being told for the first time to take responsibility for his own parent. “I do,” Sarah answered softly. “That’s why I’m offering options. Options that keep everyone’s dignity—and health. Including your mum’s.” Paul suddenly turned and left the kitchen. The door to the living room closed—not with a slam, but firmly enough. Sarah sat at the table, staring at her cold tea. One thought spun calmly in her mind: “Well, that’s it. It’s begun.” She knew that was only the beginning. She knew he’d ring his sister now. Then his mum. Then his sister again. In an hour, her mother-in-law would knock: she only lived ten minutes’ walk away, always “hearing everything.” There’d be a long, raised-voice conversation where she’d be called cold, selfish, ungrateful, a woman who’d “forgotten the meaning of family.” But most of all, Sarah realised something very simple. She would never again apologise for wanting more than four hours’ sleep a night. Or for her job being more than a hobby. Or for needing her own nerves, veins, and a life that didn’t revolve around endless, thankless caring. She stood, went to the window, threw it open. Night air swept in, carrying the scent of wet pavement and distant bonfire smoke. Sarah breathed in deeply. “Let them say what they like,” she thought. “The main thing is—I’ve just said my first ‘no.’” And that “no” was the loudest thing she’d said in twelve years of marriage. The next morning, Sarah was woken by the sound of the front door unlocking. The key turned, twice—cautiously, almost guiltily. Then shuffling footsteps, a thin, raspy cough. She lay still, listening to the familiar coat-hanging, bag-dropping, shoe-removing ritual. Only now it sounded like the beginning of a war declared without warning. “Paul…?” his mum’s voice was weak, but still bossy. “You home?” Paul, probably up all night, replied without hesitation, too cheerfully: “Home, Mum. Come into the kitchen, kettle’s on.” Sarah closed her eyes. “He didn’t even warn me she’d arrive today. Just did it.” Forcing herself up, she donned her dressing gown, crossed the corridor. Mrs. Evans stood in the hall—small, hunched, wearing the same old navy coat she’d had for years. In her hands—a bag of medicine and a thermos. When she saw Sarah, she smiled—thinly, wearily, but with that usual faint air of superiority. “Morning, love. Sorry it’s so early. Doctor said the sooner I move in, the better.” Sarah nodded. “Morning, Mrs. Evans.” Paul emerged from the kitchen with a tray—tea, toast, pills in a saucer. “Mum, go settle in the big room. I’ve made the sofa up for you.” “And who’s going to unpack?” Mrs. Evans looked at Sarah. “You’ll help, won’t you?” Sarah felt a pulse begin in her temples. “Of course,” she replied. “After work.” “After work?” Mrs. Evans’ voice rose fractionally. “And who’ll stay with me today?” Paul coughed. “I’m at work this morning, Mum. But I’ll nip home for lunch. Sarah…” He turned to his wife. “Could you take a day off?” Sarah stared at her husband—long, hard. “I’ve got a project presentation today, Paul. Can’t possibly cancel.” “And after that?” Mrs. Evans was already unbuttoning her coat. “Can you come after?” “After the presentation I’ll be back as usual. Seven, half seven.” Silence. Mrs. Evans sank heavily onto the hall stool. “So I’ll be alone all day?” Paul threw Sarah a quick, near-pleading glance. Sarah answered calmly, without raising her voice: “Mrs. Evans, I’ll make you meals for the day this morning. Pills set out by time, all labelled. If you need anything—call. I’ll pick up, even in the presentation.” Mrs. Evans pursed her lips. “And if I fall? Or take the wrong medicine?” “Then ring 999. That’s safer than waiting for me to get across town.” Paul began to say something, then stopped. Mrs. Evans looked at her son. “Paul… did you hear?” “Mum,” he said softly, almost whispering, “Sarah’s right. We’re not nurses. If it’s serious—call an ambulance.” Sarah was surprised. It was the first “Sarah’s right” she’d heard out loud in seven years, maybe more. Mrs. Evans slowly rose. “Well then,” she said. “If that’s the decision… that’s it.” She shuffled into the living room, bag trailing behind. The door clicked softly—almost with a flourish. Paul turned to his wife. “You could have at least…” “No,” Sarah interrupted. “I couldn’t. And I won’t.” She went into the kitchen, poured herself some water, drank it down. Paul came up behind her. “Sarah… I get this is hard for you. But it’s my mum.” “I know.” “And she really isn’t well.” “I believe you.” “Then why…” Sarah turned to face him. “Because if I say yes and do it all now, that becomes normal. Forever. Understand?” He said nothing. “I love you,” she went on. “But I won’t let our family fall apart because someone decided the other person doesn’t get to have their own life.” Paul looked down at his hands. “I’ll… I’ll speak to my sister again. Maybe she can come help at weekends.” “That would be good.” He looked up. “And you… you won’t stay angry at me?” Sarah finally smiled—a little—for the first time in a day. “I’m already angry. But I’m trying not to make it last forever.” He nodded. “I’ll try… to do better.” Sarah glanced at the clock. “I’d better get ready. The presentation’s in two hours.” She walked to the bedroom. Paul remained in the kitchen, staring into an empty mug. The day went surprisingly smoothly. Sarah nailed her presentation—the client was pleased, even promised a bonus for the quick turnaround. She left the office at half-six, feeling oddly light-hearted. On the Tube, she messaged Paul: “How’s your mum?” His reply came almost at once: “Asleep. I’ve been home since three. Made dinner. We’re waiting for you.” Sarah looked out at the darkness beyond the window. “We’re waiting for you.” Words that hadn’t sounded so… homely in years. They really were waiting for her. On the table—salad, baked cod, potatoes. Mrs. Evans sat in her armchair with a book. At the sight of her daughter-in-law, she set it aside. “Sarah love… you’re home.” “I am.” “Sit down, have something. Paul did everything himself. Even washed up.” Sarah looked at her husband. He just shrugged—nothing special. She joined them at the table. Mrs. Evans cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking… maybe we should really look for a carer. At least for the daytime. Paul’s struggling at work, taking time off…” Sarah looked up. “That would be sensible.” “I’ll call my sister,” Paul added. “She can chip in too. She offered to think about it.” Mrs. Evans sighed. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day a stranger would be changing my nappies…” “No one’s a stranger, Mum,” Paul said softly. “We’re family. Just… with proper boundaries.” Sarah met her mother-in-law’s eyes. After a moment, she nodded. “I suppose… it’s time to learn.” At that moment, Mrs. Evans’ phone rang. She checked the screen and sighed. “Your sister… Nina.” Paul picked up. “Hi, Mum… Yes, we’re all home… Listen, we need help. Not just with money. Come this weekend. We’ll talk as a family.” He hung up. Looked at Sarah. “She’ll come.” Sarah nodded. “Good.” For the first time in years, she realised it wasn’t frightening to come home. Not because it was quiet. Because, at last, home had started listening. Three weeks passed. Mrs. Evans had stopped coughing so harshly at night. The medicine was working, the swelling in her legs subsiding, and she even sometimes got up for her own tea. But most importantly, the flat was quieter—an adult, calm silence of people finally learning to compromise. Saturday morning, Nina arrived from Manchester. She came in with two big bags, her young daughter on her hip, a guilty smile on her face. “Mum, hi… Hi Sarah, hi Paul… Sorry it’s taken me so long to get here.” Mrs. Evans, sitting by the window, turned as if afraid to disturb the moment. “You made it after all.” “Of course,” Nina set the bags down, handed the toddler to Paul, knelt by her mum’s chair. “I promised, didn’t I?” Sarah stood in the kitchen doorway, just watching. Nina cleared her throat. “Paul and I talked a lot yesterday. We’ve decided—” She produced a folded piece of paper. “This is the carer’s ad. Registered nurse, comes from nine till seven, five days a week. Weekends—it’s our turn.” Mrs. Evans’ fingers trembled as she took the paper. She glanced at her son. “And money?” “We split it three ways,” Paul answered steadily. “Me, Nina and Sarah. Equally.” “Equally…” Mrs. Evans repeated, tasting the word. Nina nodded. “Mum, you know none of us can quit our jobs to provide full-time care. But you need someone with you all day. So—we’ll pay for a professional.” Sarah spoke for the first time. “We’ve already arranged to meet her. Olga Davies. Fifty-eight, twenty years’ experience caring for patients at home. She’ll come tomorrow to introduce herself.” Mrs. Evans was silent for a long moment. Then she looked directly at Sarah—no squint, no superiority. “Sarah… you could have just said ‘no’ and left. Most people would.” Sarah shrugged lightly. “I could have. But everyone would lose. Especially you.” Mrs. Evans stared at her hands. “I’ve done a lot of thinking these weeks. Being alone in the day… I always thought, as a mother, that meant everyone had to… well, fit in around me. Turns out—it’s me who has to learn to fit in now.” Nina reached over and squeezed her mum’s hand. “No one’s forcing you to fit in, Mum. Just live so everyone can breathe easy.” Mrs. Evans looked at her daughter, then at her son, then back at Sarah. “I’m sorry, Sarah,” she said softly, almost whispering. “I really did think I had the right… to demand.” Sarah felt something release inside her—a spot long pinched and sore. “I accept your apology, Mrs. Evans.” At last, Mrs. Evans smiled—not a trace of superiority. “Well… let’s meet this Olga of yours. If everyone’s decided I’m not the queen of the house anymore.” Paul grinned—for the first time in weeks, easily. “Not queen, not boss. Just our mum. And we all love you. We’ll care for you. Just like people.” That evening, after Nina and her daughter left for the station, and Mrs. Evans slept in her room, Sarah and Paul sat in the kitchen in the dim light. He poured her a glass of wine. One for himself, too. “You know,” he said quietly, “I thought you’d leave.” Sarah looked at him, surprised. “Really?” “Yes. When you said ‘no’ that first night… I was sure it was over. That you’d pack up and tell us to sort it out ourselves.” She turned her glass in her hands. “I did think about it. Honestly.” “So why didn’t you?” Sarah was silent for a long time. Then she answered: “Because if I left then, I’d never know if you could become the man who takes responsibility—for real.” Paul looked down. “I’ve learnt a lot these past weeks. And I’m still learning.” “I can see that.” He looked up. “Thanks for giving me the chance.” Sarah smiled—softly, without bitterness. “Thank you for taking it.” They clinked glasses—quietly, almost solemnly. Outside, the first proper snow of the winter fell. Fat flakes drifted in the lamp-light, blanketing the pavement in soft white. In Mrs. Evans’ room, a night light glowed. And in Sarah and Paul’s bedroom, for the first time in ages, everything smelt—not of medicine and worry—but simply of home. Their home.

My Mother-in-Law Never Needed to Raise Her Voice—She Could Cut Deep with Quiet Words and a Smile. The Night She Looked at Me and Said, “Tomorrow We’re Going to the Solicitor,” I Didn’t Just Feel Fear—It Was Like Someone Decided to Erase Me from My Own Life. Years Ago, When I Married, I Believed That If You Gave Kindness, You’d Get Kindness Back. Our Home Wasn’t Large, But It Was Real—The Keys Always on the Same Spot on the Counter, Next to the Fruit Bowl. I Relished the Evening Silence and Considered It My Treasure. But My Mother-in-Law Loved Control, Not Quiet; She Needed to Know Everything, Dressed Up as Care. “You’re Like a Daughter to Me,” She’d Say While Straightening My Collar. Then Came Unsolicited Advice: “Never Leave Your Bag on the Chair, It’s Bad Luck,” or “Don’t Buy That Brand, It’s Not Good,” or “Don’t Talk to Him That Way, Men Dislike Opinionated Women.” I Smiled and Swallowed It All, Telling Myself, “She’s from another era.” If That Was All, I Would Have Endured. But Then Came The Question of Inheritance—Not Money or Property, But the Feeling That I Was Now Temporary, Like a Piece in the Hall That Could Be Moved If In The Way. My Husband Had Inherited an Old but Lovely Flat that We Renovated Together. I Poured my Time, Heart, and Money into It, Thinking We Were Building Something Ours. She Thought Differently. One Saturday Morning, She Arrived Unannounced, Inspected Everything for “Her” Possessions, and Said, “We Need to Sort Out the Papers.” My Heart Sank. I Was Suddenly Categorized as a ‘Temporary Daughter-In-Law.’ When I Insisted “We’re Family,” She Laughed Coldly: “Family is Blood. The Rest is just a Contract.” With My Husband Present, She Produced a Folder, All Prepared—Documents, Notes, Plans to Keep the Flat in the Family, “You Never Know, If You Separate, He’ll Be Left With Nothing.” For the First Time, She Spoke About Me As If I Wasn’t Even There. I Stood my Ground: “There Won’t Be a Solicitor.” She Froze, Smiled, and Asked, “What Do You Mean?” I Responded Calmly: “Because This is My Life.” When She Insisted This Wasn’t My Decision, I Replied, “It Already Is.” She Sighed Demonstratively and Declared, “You Came Here With Nothing,” To Which I Quietly Returned, “And You Come Here With Full Demands.” My Husband Finally Intervened: “She’s Not the Enemy.” But His Mother Retorted, “She Will Be When the Time Comes. I’m Thinking of You.” Then She Asked If I’d Be Offended—”This is for your own good.” I Realized She Wasn’t Just Interfering; She Was Pushing Me Aside, Making Me Either Stay Quiet and Agree or Say ‘No’ and Be ‘the Bad One.’ I Was Determined Not to Be a Doormat. “We Can Talk About Documents,” I Said, “But Not Yours—Mine.” I Produced My Own Folder: Proof of Everything I’d Put Into the Home. “If You’re Going to Treat Me Like a Threat, I’ll Protect Myself as Someone Who Knows Her Rights.” She Scoffed, “Are You Going to Sue Us?” “No,” I Said, “I’m Protecting Myself.” I Produced a Document: “A Contract—Not for Love, But Boundaries. If There Will Be Calculating and Fear, There Will Be Rules.” My Mother-in-Law Went Pale, “You’re Shameless!” I Looked Her in the Eye: “It’s Shameless to Humiliate a Woman in Her Own Home and Scheme Behind Her Back.” My Husband Saw the Truth—“You Prepared This Already?” “Yes. I Saw Where Things Were Headed.” His Mother Rose: “So You Don’t Love Him!” “I Do,” I Said, “And That’s Why I Won’t Let You Turn Him Into a Spineless Man.” The Climax Was Not a Shout or Slap—Just Quiet Truth. My Husband Finally Said, “Mum, Sorry—But She’s Right. You’ve Gone Too Far.” His Mother, Shocked, Asked, “You Choose Her?” “No. I Choose Us—Without You Dictating.” She Stormed Out, Hissing: “You’ll Regret This.” When the Door Closed, True Silence Filled Our Home. I Didn’t Rush to Fix Anything—For Once, I Let It Be. I Simply Said, “If Anyone Wants to Erase Me from Your Life, They’ll Have to Go Through Me First. I Won’t Step Aside Anymore.” A Week Later, She Tried Again—Family Members, Hints and Calls. But This Time, She Failed. He Had Said ‘Stop,’ and I Learned What Boundaries Mean. The ‘Wow’ Moment Came Later When He Put the Keys On the Table and Said, “This is Our Home, No One Will Come Here and Count You as an Object.” That’s When I Realized Sometimes, The Greatest Revenge Isn’t Punishment—It’s Staying With Dignity…and Making Others Respect Your Place. ❓How Would You Respond—Would You Stay in a Marriage if Your Mother-in-Law Treated You as Temporary and Started Arranging Legal Papers Behind Your Back?

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