If cooking is such a burden for you, perhaps you should leave; well manage without you, my motherinlaw said, and my husband backed her up.
I never imagined that in a single moment my world would flip upside down, that the betrayal would come not from strangers but from the people I trusted most. One brief exchange with Élodie Marchandmy motherinlawmade it clear that I could only rely on myself. It all began, oddly enough, with an innocuous request: Mom needs to rest. Shes exhausted. Could you go away for a few weeks so she isnt disturbed? my husband said. The man I had dreamed of growing old with, the one I had fed, clothed, and supported in every way. And now it had come to this?
Théomy husbandhad once again been sent on a work trip. He worked as a technician in factories and was often on the road across France. I didnt complain; he earned a good salary and we lived comfortably. We shared my tworoom apartment, inherited from my aunt. He liked the space, I liked the peace. But whenever he was away, his mother would appear without warning. Élodie Marchand would stride in unannounced, like a storm, and immediately impose her rules: what to cook, how to tidy, where to place the linens, which groceries to buy.
I kept quiet, trying to be polite. I told myself she was elderly and alone, that I would give her care and affection. Yet gratitude never cameonly criticism. You cant even make a soup, Theres dust everywhere, How do you expect to raise children if you cant peel potatoes? It escalated when she demanded that I leave my own home so she, tired and miserable, could finally sleep. Sleep! In my own flat! Where was I supposed to go? A friends place? A hotel?
Desperate, I called Théo, trembling with hope, and poured out everything. I waited for 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 head of the household, the mother of his future children.
That was the end. I realized there was no love leftjust a practical woman useful for cooking, cleaning, and serving. No tenderness, no respect. I told him, If you want to stay with your mother, stay. Im asking for a divorce. He didnt argue. Silence. A few days later he returned, gathered his things in silence, and left to rejoin her in her hometown. I remained in my apartmentalone, empty.
I didnt cry. I couldnt any longer. My tears had dried up the day he chose her over me. Now I live calmly, without fights, without accusations, without pain. Occasionally a thought of him makes my heart tighten, but I remember his voice telling me to leave, and it feels better. Because I wasnt the one who left; he was. Love walked out, and I stayedstrong, whole, authentic.
Now each morning I wake knowing the day belongs to me, and no oneno Élodie Marchandwill dictate how I should live.
