I thought Mum was preparing the flat as a gift for us. When the renovations were finished, she simply packed up and left Dad behind.
I’m only twenty-five. A month ago, I got married and, like any girl, dreamed of starting fresh—with my husband, in a cosy flat, surrounded by love and warmth. I always believed our family was unshakable. Mum and Dad—the perfect couple, or so I thought. No shouting, no scandals, no betrayals. They’d been together over twenty years, and I grew up utterly convinced love was real. But as it turns out, I was living in an illusion.
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 her but couldn’t.
My dad is 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 a *servant*, that she wanted to *finally live for herself.*
And here’s the worst part. Before the wedding, Mum had started renovating the old flat she’d inherited from Gran. It all seemed like she was preparing it for me and my husband. I truly believed that. Even picked out paint for the kitchen, asked her opinion on furniture, dreamt of our little nest. She listened in silence, never promised, but never objected either. I thought—she was making a surprise.
Dad was sure the renovations were for us too. He just nodded, smiled, and said, *Soon you’ll have your own place, and we can finally breathe a bit.* Everyone was certain it was a gift. Everyone except her.
When the work was done, Mum packed her things and left. Told Dad she was gone for good and moved straight into *that* flat. No thanks. No explanation. No looking back. And me? I stood frozen, unable to believe any of it was real.
I tried to talk to her, to explain that my husband and I had nowhere to go, that we’d planned to begin our new life there. That I’d spent my whole life believing she was our rock. But her eyes were ice.
*I don’t owe you anything,* Mum said calmly. *It’s my flat. I inherited it. I worked, I renovated, I’ll live in it. Enough. I’m not a maid anymore. I’m sick of cleaning, cooking, sacrificing. I just want to live—alone.*
I wanted to scream. To remind her of all the times I needed her, how Dad and I had lifted her up when she struggled. To ask—what were we all those years? Just a duty? A chore?
Dad crumpled. Didn’t beg, didn’t fight. Just watched her go like a man who’d lost his last hope. He couldn’t understand how the woman he’d spent half his life with could turn away—quietly, coldly—just like that.
Now, my husband and I live with his parents. It’s temporary, but who knows for how long. We’re searching for a place, weighing our options, but the bitterness clings. Not because Mum kept the flat. But because all this time, she was just simmering in resentment, and we never noticed. Because she doesn’t see us as family anymore. Because betrayal, when it comes from the closest person—it doesn’t fade.
Maybe one day I’ll understand. Maybe I’ll see courage in her choice. But for now—there’s only emptiness. Mum shattered everything I believed in since childhood. And no renovation, no flat, could ever fill the crack that’s now wedged between us forever.
