When I brought my ill mother to live with me, my husband demanded, “Rent out her flat and make her move out.”
Tom and I met right after secondary school. It felt like fate itself was guiding me into his arms. It was first love—dazzling, reckless, almost like something out of a fairy tale. We didn’t hesitate long and got married, throwing a lavish wedding at a countryside estate. Three days of celebration, music until dawn, hundreds of guests. Mum glowed with happiness—her only daughter had finally found her other half.
As a wedding gift, she gave me the flat. An inheritance from her grandmother. Yes, it needed serious renovations, but it was in a good area, a new build. Most importantly, it was ours—mine and Tom’s. Our fresh start.
But Mum didn’t stop there. She handed over all her savings so we could refurbish it properly, buy furniture, make every corner ours. Her contribution to our future was enormous. I felt like the luckiest woman alive. It seemed we stood on solid ground—built on love and kindness.
Then, everything fell apart without warning.
At our wedding, Dad met a much younger woman. Fell for her like a schoolboy. Within weeks, he’d left Mum, walked out on their marriage. Then, he sorted the paperwork, removed her from the deeds, and sold the flat they’d shared for decades. Mum was left with nothing—no roof over her head, no support.
She endured it. Smiled, stayed by my side even when the pain nearly broke her. Then came the worst—a stroke. It left her half-paralysed. She could barely speak, barely move. And she was alone. Completely.
I knew straight away—there was no other choice. I was taking her home with me. Our flat had two bedrooms, 70 square metres, plenty of space. Mum had always been quiet, unassuming. She wouldn’t be in anyone’s way.
I brought her home from the hospital. Changed the sheets, set up a bedside table, made her tea. I wanted her to feel safe now. Warm. Loved.
But then came what I’d never have dreamed, even in a nightmare.
Tom, seeing Mum settled in, spoke coldly:
“Listen, Kate. Your mum can’t stay here. Sort her a place. Rent out her old flat—let her live off that.”
I froze.
“What did you just say?”
“I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t want someone to look after. She’s your mother—your problem.”
He’d forgotten whose hands had built this life for us. Forgotten she’d given us everything she had. Forgotten that he owed her at least a shred of gratitude.
I didn’t shout. Didn’t make a scene. Just packed his things and put them outside. No hysterics. No tears. Calmly. Like a surgeon removing something rotten. It was the end. And instead of breaking me, it felt like the start of something honest.
Because a man who abandons you at the first sign of hardship was never yours. And if he could erase the very person who’d saved us when she could—well, that’s not a man. Just a mistake.
Now it’s just Mum and me. Yes, it’s hard. Very. She can’t walk, can hardly talk. I care for her, feed her, wash her, wipe her tears. She’ll never be the same—laughing, baking, hugging me tight. 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. That I never got pregnant. That Tom showed his true colours now, and not when we had a child.
Dad vanished. My husband’s gone. It’s just Mum and me now. And the quiet where I’m learning to breathe again. It’s hard. But I’m not ashamed. Because I’m a daughter who didn’t betray.
