**Diary Entry**
“You’ve got a month to move out,” my mother-in-law said. And my husband… agreed.
Arthur and I had been together for two years, and on the surface, everything seemed perfect. We weren’t in a rush to marry, living in his mum’s flat, and I truly believed I’d struck gold with her. She was warm, calm, measured—never interfering, never critical, never overbearing. I respected her, listened to her advice, called her “Mum,” and genuinely thought we had a solid relationship.
When we finally decided to tie the knot, she covered all the expenses. My parents, unfortunately, were in a tight spot financially and could only contribute a token amount toward the wedding. I was grateful to her. I thought we were a proper family. How wrong I was.
A week after the wedding, we sat in the kitchen over tea when, without a flicker of guilt, she said, “Right then, my dears, I’ve done my part. Raised my son, put him through uni, got him on his feet—even found him a good wife. Threw you a lovely wedding, too. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve a month to find your own place. You’re married now; time to sort things out yourselves. Don’t fret—it’ll be hard at first, but you’ll learn to budget, plan, and figure things out.”
I was stunned. The floor might as well have vanished beneath me. I tried to laugh it off. “You’re joking, Mum?”
She shook her head. “Dead serious. I’m 56. I want to live for myself now. I’m tired of being ‘someone’s mum,’ ‘the landlady,’ ‘the one who fixes everything.’ No more. And if you have kids—don’t count on me. I’ll be a grandmother, not a babysitter. Visit anytime, but my life is my own now. You’ll understand… when you’re my age.”
I couldn’t believe it. We’d *just* married! The confetti hadn’t even settled, and here she was, shoving us out. Her son—my husband—co-owned this flat. It was in the prenup. He had every legal right to half of it. Yet suddenly, she expected us to leave.
But the worst part? Arthur… just nodded. No argument, no defence. He didn’t even try to talk her round. He stood up, opened his laptop, and started browsing rental listings. Then, casually, he said, “Well, if that’s what she wants… We’ll manage, Ellie. Maybe I’ll switch jobs. It’ll be fine.”
I held back tears. Inside, I was boiling. My parents couldn’t help us—fine—but they’d *never* have tossed us out like this. How could his mother be so selfish?
I wanted to scream. We were just starting out, carving our path together—and she’d coldly dumped us on the kerb.
Later, alone, I tried talking to Arthur. Explaining how hurt I was. He just shrugged. “Her flat, her rules. She wants her space. I get it. Let’s not make a scene.”
That’s when I first felt the chill between us. A frost creeping down my spine. I realised—he had no spine of his own. Not a husband, just a son. And as long as *she* called the shots, he’d obey. And me?
I was disposable.
A month passed. We rented a tiny flat on the outskirts, swallowing most of my wages. Arthur changed jobs, working late most nights. Now, I sit alone in the dim kitchenette, staring out the window, wondering—was I ever really “family” to them?
I tried, honestly. Cooked, cleaned, bent over backwards to make them happy. But in the end? *They* were the family. I was just the one you could kick out.
Yes, I’m furious. Yes, it hurts. And yet… maybe this test will prove whether Arthur and I are truly partners—or not.
But one thing still baffles me: what kind of loving mother throws her son out a month after his wedding, knowing he’s not ready, that he’s got no safety net?
Or does love end where selfishness begins?
