I thought Mum was preparing a flat for us as a wedding gift. When the renovations finished, she simply moved in—without my father.
I was only twenty-five. A month earlier, I had married, and like any young woman, I dreamed of starting anew—a fresh life with my husband, a cosy home, warmth and support around us. I always believed our family was unshakable. Mum and Dad—the perfect pair, or so I had thought. No shouting, no rows, no betrayals. They had been together over twenty years, and I grew up certain that love endured. But as it turned out, I’d been living in a dream.
Right after the wedding, Mum declared she could no longer live with Dad. No hysterics. No explanations. Just, “I’m leaving.” I thought I’d misheard. How? Why now? I tried to understand, but nothing made sense.
My father was a quiet, caring man. Never drank, never smoked, never raised his voice at Mum or me. He worked all his life, provided for us, took Mum everywhere, helped around the house—and suddenly… she decided it wasn’t the life she wanted. Said she was tired of being “the maid,” that she wanted “to live for herself at last.”
The worst part? Before the wedding, Mum had begun renovating her grandmother’s old flat. It all seemed as though she was preparing it for me and my husband. I truly believed it. I picked out colours for the kitchen, asked her advice on furniture, dreamed of our little nest. She listened in silence—never promised, never corrected me. I assumed it was her way of surprising us.
Dad thought the same. He’d nod and smile, saying, “Soon you’ll have your own place, and we’ll finally catch our breath.” Everyone was sure she was giving us a gift. Everyone but 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 explanations, no looking back. And I… I stood frozen, unable to believe it wasn’t some terrible dream.
I tried to talk to her, to explain that my husband and I had nowhere to go. That we’d planned to begin our life in that home. That I’d always believed she was our rock. But her eyes were cold as ice.
“I don’t owe you anything,” she said calmly. “This is my flat. I inherited it. I worked, I renovated, I’ll live here. Enough. I’m not a servant anymore. I’m tired of cleaning, cooking, sacrificing. I just want to live—alone.”
I wanted to scream. To remind her of all the times I’d needed her, of how Dad and I had lifted her when she struggled. To ask—had we ever mattered? Just a duty, an obligation?
Dad crumbled. He didn’t beg, didn’t fight. Just watched her go like a man who’d lost his last hope. He couldn’t fathom how the woman he’d shared half his life with could turn away so quietly, so coldly.
Now, my husband and I live with his parents. It’s temporary, but I don’t know for how long. We’re searching for a place, weighing options, but the hurt lingers. Not because Mum kept the flat—but because all this time, she’d been simmering in resentment, and none of us saw it. Because she no longer sees us as family. Because betrayal, when it comes from someone so close, leaves a wound that never truly heals.
Perhaps one day I’ll understand. Perhaps I’ll see bravery in her choice. But for now—there’s only emptiness. Mum shattered everything I’d believed since childhood. And no renovation, no flat, could ever be worth the crack that now runs between us.
