**Diary Entry**
“You’ve got a month to move out!” my mother-in-law announced. And my husband… stood by her.
Arthur and I had been together for two years, and by all appearances, things were perfect. We weren’t in a rush to marry, living instead in his mother’s flat, and I truly thought I’d struck gold with her—she was warm, reserved, never prying or overbearing. I respected her, took her advice, even called her “Mum.” I believed we had something special.
When we decided to wed, she covered all the expenses. My parents, sadly, were in dire straits financially and could only contribute symbolically. I was grateful to her. I was certain we were family. How wrong I was.
A week after the wedding, we sat drinking tea in the kitchen when she coolly, without a hint of guilt, said, “Well, my dears, my job’s done. I raised my son, put him through uni, found him a lovely wife, even paid for your wedding. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got a month to move out of my place. You’re a family now—time to stand on your own feet. Don’t fret; it’ll be tough at first, but you’ll learn to budget, plan, and manage.”
I was stunned. The ground might as well have vanished beneath me. I tried to laugh it off. “Mum, you’re joking, right?”
She shook her head. “Dead serious. I’m 56. I want to live for *myself* now. I’m tired of being ‘someone’s mum,’ ‘the landlady,’ ‘the one who sorts everything.’ No more. And if you have kids—don’t count on me. I’ll be their grandmother, not their nanny. Visit anytime, you’re welcome, but my life is *mine* from now on. You’ll understand… when you’re my age.”
I couldn’t believe it. We’d *just* married! The wedding whirlwind hadn’t even settled, and she was already kicking us out. Her son—my husband—*co-owned* the flat. We’d signed a prenup stating as much. Yet here she was, demanding we leave.
The worst part? Arthur… just nodded. No argument, no defence. He didn’t even *try* to reason with her. He simply opened his laptop and started browsing rental listings. “If that’s what she wants,” he muttered. “We’ll manage, Ellie. Don’t worry. Maybe I’ll switch jobs. It’ll be fine.”
I bit back tears, fury boiling inside me. My parents couldn’t help—yes, but they’d *never* throw us out. Why was his mother so selfish?
I wanted to scream. We were just starting our life together, and she’d callously tossed us aside.
Later, alone with Arthur, I tried to explain how hurt I was. He just shrugged. “Her flat, her rules. She wants space. I get it. Let’s not make a scene.”
That’s when I first felt the chill between us—an icy dread creeping down my spine. I realised then: he has no spine of his own. He’s not my husband first; he’s her son. And as long as she’s calling the shots, he’ll obey.
Where does that leave me?
Nowhere.
A month passed. We rented a tiny one-bed flat in the outskirts, swallowing nearly my entire salary in rent. Arthur switched jobs, staying late most nights. I sit alone in our dim little kitchen, staring out the window, wondering: was I ever *really* part of their family?
I tried, I really did. I cooked, cleaned, bent over backwards for them. Yet in the end, they were blood—and I was the one who could be shown the door.
Yes, I’m angry. Yes, it hurts. And still… maybe this test will prove whether Arthur and I are truly partners. Or whether we never were at all.
But one thing I still can’t grasp: what kind of loving mother throws her son out *a week* after his wedding, knowing he’s not ready, that he’s got no safety net?
Or does love end where selfishness begins?
