When I brought my ailing mother to live with me, my husband demanded, “Rent out her flat and make her leave.”
Igor and I met right after school. It seemed fate itself had led me into his arms. It was first love—dazzling, reckless, almost fairy-tale. We didn’t hesitate long and married in a grand ceremony at a countryside manor. Three days of revelry, music until dawn, hundreds of guests. Mum glowed with happiness—at last, her only daughter had found her other half.
As a wedding gift, she gave me the flat. An inheritance from her grandmother. True, it needed serious work, but it was in a new building, a good neighbourhood. Most importantly, it was ours—Igor’s and mine. Our fresh start.
But Mum didn’t stop there. She handed over all her savings so we could renovate properly, buy furniture, make every corner ours. Her investment in our future was immense. I felt like the luckiest woman alive. It seemed we stood on solid ground—love and kindness.
Then, without warning, it all crumbled.
At our wedding, my father met a younger woman and fell for her like a schoolboy. Within weeks, he left Mum, abandoning their shared life. He had her name removed from the deeds, sold the flat they’d built together over decades. Mum was left with nothing—no roof, no support.
She held on. Smiled, stayed by my side, even when she could barely stand from the hurt. Then came the worst—a stroke. Half her body froze. She struggled to speak, to move. And she was alone. Entirely.
I knew at once there was no choice. I brought her home. Our flat had two bedrooms, 70 square metres—plenty of space. Mum had always been quiet, unassuming; she wouldn’t be a bother.
I settled her in after the hospital. Fresh sheets, a nightstand by the bed, a cup of tea brewed. I wanted her to feel safe now. Warm. Loved.
But then came what I’d never imagined, even in nightmares.
Igor, seeing Mum with us, spoke cold and sharp:
“Listen, Kate. Your mother can’t stay here. Find her a place. Rent out her old flat—let her live off that.”
I froze.
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t sign up for this. I won’t care for an invalid. She’s your mother—your problem.”
He’d forgotten whose hands built this home. Forgotten she’d given us all she had. Forgotten even the smallest debt of gratitude.
I didn’t shout. Didn’t make a scene. Just packed his things and set them by the door. No tears, no drama. Calm, like a surgeon removing rot. It was the end. And it didn’t break me—it was the start of something honest.
Because a man who abandons you at the first hardship was never yours. And one who casts aside the very person who saved you? That’s not a man at all—just a mistake.
Now it’s just Mum and me. Yes, it’s hard. Very. She doesn’t walk, barely speaks. I bathe her, feed her, wipe her tears. She’ll never again be the lively, laughing woman with warm hugs and fresh-baked pies. But she’s my mother. And I’ll care for her—not just in joy, but in sickness.
Funny, I thank fate. That I never had his child. That Igor showed his true colours now, not later.
Father vanished. My husband left. Only Mum and I remain, and the quiet where I learn to breathe anew. It’s heavy. But there’s no shame. Because I’m a daughter who didn’t betray.
