When my mother-in-law, Doreen, came to stay for a week, I welcomed her with fresh towels, lavender soap, and homemade scones. I never expected a full-blown takeover.
I came home from work, stepped into my bedroom, and froze. Doreen stood there, unpacking—my clothes tossed onto the floor.
“Oh, Phoebe, be a sweetheart and move to the guest room,” she said, settling onto my bed like royalty.
Jake walked in, carrying her second suitcase. “Mom needs to rest. You can set up in the guest room,” he said casually, like I didn’t share ownership of this house.
Something inside me snapped. I packed essentials, wrote a note—”Enjoy your week together. I’ll be back when the house feels like mine again.”—and checked into a luxury hotel. Spa, room service, peace.
Yet, I couldn’t relax. It wasn’t just about the bed; it was about Jake. The way he dismissed me, prioritized her. Did I really matter to him?
After days away, I returned home. The house smelled clean—like guilt. Jake waited, dark circles under his eyes.
“You didn’t have to leave,” he said.
“You didn’t have to make me feel like I should,” I shot back.
Doreen had left early, unable to handle doing her own chores. Jake finally admitted, “She crossed a line.”
“So did you,” I replied.
He nodded, guilt-ridden. “I hate that you felt like you had to leave.”
“I hate that I wasn’t made to feel like I could stay.”
Silence.
Finally, I belonged again.
