If cooking is such a burden for you, perhaps you should leave; well manage without you, my motherinlaw said, with my husbands backing.
I never imagined that in an instant my world would turn upside down, that betrayal would come not from strangers but from those I trusted most. A single conversation with Élodie Marchandmy motherinlawmade it clear that I could rely only on myself. It all began, oddly enough, with a harmless remark: Mom needs to rest. Shes exhausted. Could you go away for a few weeks so you wont disturb her? thats what my husband said. The man I had dreamed of growing old with, the one I had fed, clothed and supported in every way. And it all led to this?
Théomy husbandhad gone away on another assignment. He worked as a technician in factories and often travelled across France. I didnt complain; he earned a good salary and we lived comfortably. We shared my tworoom flat, inherited from my aunt. He liked the space, I liked the peace. Yet each time he was absent, his mother would appear unannounced. Élodie Marchand. Without knocking, without asking. She would stride in like a storm and immediately impose her rules: what to cook, how to tidy, where to place the sheets, which products to buy.
I kept quiet, trying to be polite. I told myself she was old and aloneI would give her attention and affection. But instead of gratitude I received only criticism. You cant even make a soup, Theres dust everywhere, How can you raise children if you cant peel potatoes? Then it got worse. She demanded that I leavemy own homeso that she, tired and unhappy, could finally sleep. Sleep! In my own dwelling! Where was I supposed to go? To a friends place? To a hotel?
I called Théo, trembling with hope, and told him everything. I expected his support. He wasnt surprised at all. Mom really needs rest. Be kind, put up with it. Go away for a while, well talk later He never asked where I would go, never offered to pay for a room, never reminded me that I was his wife, the lady of the house, the mother of his future children.
That was the end. I realized there was no love leftjust a practical woman good at cooking, cleaning and serving. No tenderness, no respect. I said, If you want to stay with your mother, stay. But I want a divorce. He didnt argue. Silence. A few days later he returned, collected his things in silence and left to join her in her hometown. I stayed. In my flat. Alone. Empty.
I didnt cry. I couldnt any longer. My tears had dried up the day he chose her over me. Now I live peacefully, without fights, without criticism, without pain. Occasionally a thought of him knots my heart, but I remember his voice telling me to leave, and it feels better. Because I wasnt the one who left; he was. Love left. I stayed. Strong. Whole. Real.
Now each morning I wake knowing the day belongs to me, and no oneno Élodie Marchandwill ever dictate how I should live.
