“You have a month to vacate my flat!” declared my mother-in-law.
James 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—and I had always gotten along well, even warmly. I respected her, listened to her advice, and avoided arguments. She seemed happy about our union—always kind, never giving me any reason for conflict. I considered myself lucky.
She even helped organise our wedding. My parents could barely scrape together a modest gift—their finances were tight—but Margaret took care of everything, from the venue to hiring the cars. I thanked her wholeheartedly and truly felt we’d become almost like family.
Yet everything changed just days after the wedding.
“Well then, my dears,” she said over a family dinner, “I’ve done my part. Raised my son, gave him an education, set him on his feet, and now seen him married. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d like you both to move out of my flat within the month. You’re a family now—that means standing on your own two feet. It’s important. Yes, it might be tough, but that’s life. Learn to budget, figure things out, make grown-up decisions. I, for one, finally want to live for myself.”
For a moment, I barely understood what was happening. My face flushed, my heart pounded—then I went cold. How could this be? Just yesterday, we were her “darlings,” and now she’s calmly kicking us out? And grandchildren? Clearly, she has no intention of being involved…
“If you were counting on me to babysit, think again,” she added smoothly. “I’m a mother, not a nanny. I’ve spent my whole life putting James first. Now, I want what’s left of it for myself. My door will always be open—for tea, for holidays. But don’t expect anything more. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
I sat there, fighting back tears. James and I hadn’t even settled in—we were still living in her flat. And now, what? Packing up and leaving? Renting? Struggling? And all this from a woman I’d thought of as a second mother…
I was furious. It felt like betrayal. She’s comfortably settled in her three-bed, all alone—while we scramble for a roof over our heads. And James owns a share in that flat—he grew up there! And grandchildren? Don’t grandmothers dream of cuddling babies, passing on wisdom? But she just brushed it aside.
To my surprise, James didn’t argue with her. In fact, he immediately started hunting for a new place and a better-paying job. Said his mum was right—we were adults now and needed to build our own life.
I kept wondering—why? Why was she being so cold? Couldn’t she have waited a few months? Or at least helped us find somewhere? My parents can’t support us, but I’d hoped she’d be there. Turns out, no.
Now, we’re packing. And every evening, I wonder—was she right? Or was she just tired of pretending?
What do you think?…
