**The Heavy Price of Freedom**
“Eleanor, have you seen the blue folder with the documents? I left it on the side table in the living room!” Alex’s voice trembled with dread. He had turned the entire house in the quiet outskirts of Manchester upside down, but the folder had vanished into thin air.
“Oh, that tatty old thing?” Eleanor sniffed dismissively. “Stained and scuffed—I binned it.”
Alex froze as if struck. That folder contained the report he had worked on relentlessly for two weeks. The deadline loomed tomorrow. He could retype it, but the signatures—where would he get those at ten in the evening?
“How *could* you?” he seethed, barely containing his fury. “That was a critical report! It was barely scratched! Do you realise I could lose my job over this?”
“Stop leaving your rubbish lying about!” his mother-in-law scoffed, nudging her half-finished tea aside. “Some businessman *you* are. If it meant so much, you’d have kept it in your room, not tossed it wherever!”
“It was on the side table, not the floor!” Blood pounded in Alex’s temples.
This wasn’t the first time Eleanor had thrown his things away—first it was his “too-old” shirts, then his notebooks. But today, she had crossed a line.
“This is *my* house. *I* make the rules!” she declared, tilting her chin high. “If you don’t like it, the door’s right there!”
Alex clenched his fists, counting to ten in his head. The calm never came. *Her* house. Yes, the place belonged to Eleanor. She had insisted he and his wife, Victoria, move in. “Why waste money on rent when I’ve got space to spare?” she had argued.
At first, it made sense. Alex was climbing the corporate ladder, working gruelling hours. Victoria had a difficult pregnancy and could barely leave bed. Cooking? Cleaning? Out of the question. Eleanor offered to help, and they’d accepted gratefully.
But a year later, after their son Oliver was born, Alex suggested moving out. Even a rented flat—just somewhere with *their* rules. Victoria refused. “Why bother? Mum does everything, looks after Oliver—I get to rest!” She adored her carefree life: mornings shopping, afternoons at the spa, evenings playing with Oliver for an hour. Becoming a housewife didn’t appeal.
Alex had relented, but he wouldn’t endure this forever. Secretly, he invested in a house on Manchester’s outskirts. Victoria knew nothing—he anticipated her protests, the excuses to stay under her mother’s roof. Her life was a sheltered princess’s dream; moving meant chores, responsibility, and real motherhood.
Jaw set, Alex shoved on his coat and stormed to the bins. The rubbish hadn’t been collected yet—if he dug, he might find it.
Luck struck. The folder was there, its contents unharmed. He exhaled, relief washing over him as he marched back inside, shooting Eleanor a glacial glare. Then he headed straight to Victoria. Tonight, they were having *the* talk.
“Pack your things by tomorrow. We’re leaving,” Alex stated, collapsing into an armchair. “I won’t tolerate your mother’s meddling anymore. Why should I, a grown man, endure her nitpicking? She gets her kicks controlling me!”
“Leaving? *Where?*” Victoria gasped. “What’s wrong with here? We live rent-free! And don’t you *dare* insult Mum—she does so much for us!”
“We stayed because *you* needed help,” Alex snapped. “You’re fine now. Time to be a proper wife and mother.”
“Mum helps with Oliver! He’s so fussy—you know that!”
“Helps?” Alex scoffed. “She’s *raising* him! And poisoning him against me. I’ve heard her whisper that ‘Daddy’s bad’!”
“Oliver’s not even one—he doesn’t understand!” Victoria rolled her eyes. “You’re overreacting.”
“Am I?” Alex exploded. “Do you think an hour at bedtime counts as parenting? Eleanor won’t *let* me near him—always whisking him off to feed or change him!”
“As if *you* care about parenting!” she shot back. “You leave before he wakes, return after he’s asleep!”
“Next month, things change,” Alex said firmly. “I’ve got a promotion—fixed hours, no overtime. But the office is across town. The commute from here’s impossible.”
“That’s no reason to move! You’ve got a car!” Victoria scoffed. “Where exactly? Some rented hole?”
“We own a house.”
“*What?*” She choked on air.
“Spacious, modern. In a leafy suburb. Finished two weeks ago. Furniture arrived yesterday.”
“I *won’t* live in some suburban box!” she shrieked. “I’m not going!”
“Then we divorce.”
“You *can’t*! Oliver’s under a year—the courts will side with me!” She hurled her phone onto the sofa—uncharacteristically violent.
“Fine,” Alex shrugged. “But I won’t stay here with your mother. I’ll live *my* life—eat what I want, watch what I want, leave my things where I please without fearing they’ll be binned. And *you*? Think hard. Your mother’s pension is peanuts. I’ll pay child support, but it’ll be a fraction of what you spend now. Choose wisely.”
In the end, she gave in. They moved. But Victoria’s new life was hell. Cleaning, cooking, endless childcare. No more spas or brunches. Alex helped, but time was never enough.
A month later, she fled back to Eleanor, taking Oliver. Bitter, she sought revenge—filing for divorce and demanding half the house. She pictured forcing Alex to sell, knowing he’d have to buy her out. He’d never afford it.
Her plan was simple: humiliate him into crawling back.
Until she learned the house wasn’t in his name. It belonged to Alex’s parents. She got nothing but modest child support—exactly as he’d warned.
Eleanor fumed too. Her scapegoat was gone. Victoria crumpled at the slightest criticism; Oliver was too young to bear the brunt.
Six months later, Alex offered reconciliation—for Oliver’s sake. Victoria seized the chance. To her own surprise, she thrived as a homemaker. The pampered princess days ended, but in their place came something unexpected—pride in a life she’d once despised.
