When I brought my ill mother to live with me, my husband demanded, “Rent out her flat and make her move out.”
Igor and I met right after school. I thought fate itself had led me into his arms. It was my first love—brilliant, reckless, almost like a fairy tale. We didn’t think long before marrying, throwing a lavish wedding at a country manor. Three days of celebration, music till dawn, hundreds of guests. Mum glowed with happiness—her only daughter had finally found her other half.
As a wedding gift, she handed me the flat. An inheritance from her grandmother. Yes, it needed serious renovation, but it was in a new building in a decent part of London. Most importantly, it was our home, mine and Igor’s. Our beginning.
But Mum didn’t stop there. She gave us all her savings so we could properly fix it up—buy furniture, make every corner ours. Her contribution to our future was immense. I felt like the luckiest woman alive. It seemed we stood on solid ground—love and kindness.
Then everything crumbled overnight.
At our wedding, Dad met a younger woman. Fell head over heels like a schoolboy. A few weeks later, he walked out, abandoning Mum. Soon after, he filed the paperwork, took her off the lease, and sold the flat they’d shared for decades. Mum was left with nothing—no roof, no support.
She carried on. Smiled, stayed by my side, even when she was barely standing from grief. Then the worst happened—a stroke. Half her body was paralysed. She struggled to speak, to move. And she was alone. Entirely.
I knew instantly—there was no other choice. I’d take her in. Our flat had two bedrooms, 70 square metres—enough space. Mum had always been quiet, unassuming; she wouldn’t be a burden.
I brought her home from hospital. Made her bed with fresh sheets, set a nightstand by her side, brewed tea. I wanted her to feel safe now. Warm. Loved.
But then came the unthinkable.
Igor, seeing Mum settled in, spoke coldly:
“Listen, Kate. Your mother can’t stay here. Find her a place. Rent out her old flat—let her use the money for herself.”
I froze.
“…What did you just say?”
“I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t want someone to care for. She’s your mother—your problem.”
He’d forgotten whose hands built this life. Forgotten that she’d given us everything. Forgotten that even an ounce of gratitude was due.
I didn’t shout. Didn’t make a scene. Just packed his things and showed him the door. No tantrums. No tears. Calmly, like cutting away rot. It was the end—but it didn’t break me. Instead, it cleared the path for something honest.
Because a man who walks away the moment things get hard—who discards the person who once lifted you up—isn’t a man at all. Just a mistake.
Now it’s just Mum and me. Yes, it’s hard. Very. She can’t walk, barely speaks. I care for her, feed her, bathe her, wipe her tears. She’ll never be the same—loud, joyful, with her pies and warm hugs. But she’s my mother. And I’ll stand by her—not just in joy, but in sickness too.
And you know what? I’m grateful fate showed Igor’s true colours now, before children were in the picture.
Dad’s gone. My husband left. Only Mum and I remain, in the quiet where I’m learning to breathe again. It’s heavy. But there’s no shame. Because I’m a daughter who didn’t betray.
