“You have a month to vacate my flat!” declared my mother-in-law.
My husband, Andrew, and I had been together for two years. We loved each other, made plans for the future, and eventually decided to marry. His mother, Margaret Whitmore, had always been civil, even kind. I respected her, listened to her advice, and never argued. She seemed pleased with our union—always warm, never a hint of conflict. I thought myself lucky.
She even helped organise our wedding. My parents barely scraped together enough for a modest gift—money was tight for them. Margaret took care of everything, from the venue to the car hire. I thanked her with all my heart, feeling we’d become almost like family.
But everything changed mere days after the wedding.
“Right then, children,” she said over a family dinner, “my job is done. I raised my son, gave him a good education, set him up in life, and now I’ve seen him married. Don’t take offence, but I expect you to move out of my flat within the month. You’re a family now—you ought to stand on your own feet. It’s important. Yes, it might be hard, but that’s life. Learn to budget, find solutions, make grown-up decisions. As for me, I’d like to finally live for myself.”
It took me a moment to process her words. My face burned, my heart hammered—then a cold dread settled in. How could this be? Just yesterday, we were her “darlings,” and now she was calmly throwing us out? And grandchildren—clearly, she had no intention of ever seeing them.
“If you thought I’d babysit, you were mistaken,” she added calmly. “I’m a mother, not a nanny. I spent my life devoted to Andrew. Now I want the rest of it for myself. My door will always be open—for tea, for holidays. But don’t expect constant support. You’ll understand when the time comes.”
I sat there, fighting back tears. Andrew and I hadn’t even settled in yet—we were still living with her. And now, what? Packing up, out on the street? Renting, scrambling? All this from the woman I’d thought of as a second mother…
I was furious. To me, it was betrayal. She’d sit comfortably in her three-bedroom flat, all alone! While we’d be left hunting for a roof over our heads. And Andrew had a legal share in that flat—he’d grown up there! Was he just supposed to walk away? And what about grandchildren? Don’t grandmothers dream of doting on them, passing down love and wisdom? But she’d brushed it all aside.
To my shock, Andrew didn’t argue. Instead, he immediately started flat-hunting and looking for a better-paid job. Said his mother was right—we were grown-ups and needed to build our own life.
I kept wondering—why? Why be so cold? Couldn’t she have waited a few more months? Or helped us find a place? My parents couldn’t support us, but I’d hoped at least his mother would be there. Yet she wasn’t.
Now we’re packing. And every night, I wonder—was she right? Or was she just tired of pretending?
What do you think?…
