“You’ve got a month to move out!” said my mother-in-law. And my husband… he backed her up.
Arthur and I had been living together for two years, and by all accounts, everything seemed perfect. We weren’t rushing into marriage, living in his mother’s flat, and I truly believed I’d lucked out with my mother-in-law. She was warm, calm, composed—never meddling, never nitpicking, never overbearing. I respected her, listened to her advice, called her “Mum,” and was convinced we had a good relationship.
When we decided to marry, she covered all the expenses. My parents, unfortunately, were in dire financial straits at the time and could only chip in symbolically for the wedding. I was grateful to her. I believed we were a real family. But I couldn’t have been more wrong.
A week after the wedding, we were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea, when she tilted her head and said, utterly calm, without a hint of hesitation:
“Well then, my dears, I’ve done my part. Raised my son, put him through school, set him on his feet—even found him a good wife. Threw you a wedding. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got a month to move out. You’re a family now, so you’ll sort your own problems. Don’t worry—it’ll be tough at first, but you’ll learn to budget, plan, and figure things out.”
I was stunned. The floor might as well have dropped beneath me. I tried to laugh it off:
“Mum, you’re joking?”
She shook her head.
“Absolutely not. I’m 56—I want to live for myself now. I’m tired of being ‘someone’s mum,’ ‘the landlady,’ ‘the woman who fixes everything.’ I’m done. And kids—if you have them—don’t expect me to step in. I’ll be a grandmother, not a babysitter. Visit whenever you like, but my life is my own now. You’ll understand… when you’re my age.”
I couldn’t believe it. We’d only just married! We hadn’t even caught our breath from the wedding chaos, and she was already kicking us out. Her son—my husband—was co-owner of the flat, as stated in the prenup. He legally owned half. Yet here she was, demanding we leave.
But the worst part? Arthur… he just nodded. No argument, no defence. He didn’t even try to talk her out of it. He stood up, opened his laptop, and started browsing rental listings. Then he said:
“Well, if that’s what she’s decided… We’ll manage, Maggie. Don’t fret. I’ll look for a better-paying job. It’ll be fine.”
I bit back tears. Inside, I was everything but calm. My parents couldn’t help financially—but they’d never put us out on the street. How could his mother be so selfish?
I wanted to scream. We’d just begun our lives together, building something new—and she’d coldly shoved us aside.
Later, I tried talking to Arthur in private, explaining how hurt I was. He just shrugged.
“It’s her right. Her flat. She wants to live alone—I get it. Let’s not make a scene.”
That’s when I first felt the chill between us. A shiver down my spine. I realised—he had no stance of his own. He wasn’t a husband. He was still a son. And as long as she decided, he’d obey. And me?
I was the outsider.
A month later, we moved into a tiny one-bed flat on the outskirts. Rent eats up most of everything I earn. Arthur switched jobs, working late most nights. And here I sit, evenings in a dim little kitchen, staring out the window and wondering—was I ever really “one of them”?
I tried, truly. I cooked, cleaned, did everything to make their lives easier. But in the end, it was clear—they were family. And I? Just someone you could show the door.
Yes, I’m angry. Yes, it hurts. And yet… maybe this test will prove whether Arthur and I are really meant to be. Or if we’re not at all.
But one thing I still can’t grasp—would any loving mother kick her son out a month after his wedding, knowing he wasn’t ready, that he had no safety net?
Or does love end where selfishness begins?
