I thought Mum was preparing a flat for us as a wedding gift. When the renovations finished, she simply moved in—without Dad.
I’m only twenty-five. A month ago, I got married and, like any girl, dreamed of starting afresh—living with my husband in a cosy flat, surrounded by warmth and support. I always believed our family was unshakable. Mum and Dad—the perfect couple, or so it seemed. No shouting, no scandals, no affairs. They’d been together over twenty years, and I grew up certain love was real. Turns out, I was living in a fantasy.
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? Why now? I tried to understand but 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, provided for us, took Mum everywhere, helped around the house—and suddenly… she decided this wasn’t her life. Said she was tired of being “the maid,” that she wanted to “finally live for herself.”
Now for the gut punch. Before the wedding, Mum had been renovating her grandmother’s old flat. It looked like she was prepping it for me and my husband. I truly believed that. I even picked out paint colours for the kitchen, asked her about furniture, daydreamed about our little love nest. She listened silently—no promises, no objections. I assumed it was a surprise.
Dad thought the same. He just nodded, smiling, saying, “You’ll have your own place soon, and we’ll finally catch our breath.” Everyone was sure Mum was gifting it to us. Everyone except her.
When the renovations wrapped up, Mum packed her things and left. Told Dad it was for good, moving straight into that flat. No thanks, no explanations, no looking back. I stood there, dumbstruck, praying it was just a bad dream.
I tried talking to her, explaining my husband and I had nowhere to go. That we’d planned on starting our life in that flat. That I’d spent my whole life thinking she was my rock. But her eyes were ice.
“I don’t owe you anything,” she said flatly. “This is my flat. I inherited it. I worked, I renovated, I’m living in it. Enough. I’m done playing housemaid—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 lifted her through hard times. To ask: What were we all these years? Just chores? Obligations?
Dad crumpled. He didn’t beg, didn’t fight. Just watched her leave like a man who’d lost his last hope. He couldn’t fathom how the woman he’d spent half his life with could turn away—cold, quiet, done.
Now, my husband and I live with his parents. It’s temporary, but who knows for how long? We’re house-hunting, weighing options, but the bitterness lingers. Not because Mum kept the flat. Because all this time, she was silently simmering, and we never noticed. Because she no longer sees us as family. Because betrayal cuts deepest when it comes from the person who’s meant to love you most.
Maybe one day I’ll understand. Maybe I’ll see courage in her choice. But right now? It’s just emptiness. Mum shattered everything I’d believed since childhood. And no renovation, no flat, is worth the crack that’s now forever between us.
