Moja teściowa wykorzystała swój klucz awaryjny, żeby wkraść się do naszego domu i przenieść wszystkie swoje rzeczy do pokoju gościnnego, kiedy byliśmy jeszcze w podróży poślubnej.

Week one. I tried being understanding. Flooded homes are traumatic. Insurance paperwork takes time. But Diane wasn’t looking at apartments or calling contractors. She was reorganizing our kitchen, rearranging our furniture, and asking when we’d be giving her grandchildren.

“My eggs are still fresh from the honeymoon,” I joked to my husband Trevor one night.

He didn’t laugh.

“She’ll be gone soon,” he promised. “Just be patient.”

Week three. Diane started cooking dinner every night. Sounds nice until you realize she’d throw out the groceries I’d bought, insisting her recipes were better. She’d wait up for Trevor to come home from work, patting the couch beside her like he was still twelve.

One evening, I found her in our bedroom holding the lingerie I’d bought for the honeymoon.

“These seem awfully impractical,” she said, shaking her head. “No wonder you’re not pregnant yet.”

“Get out,” I said quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“Get out of my bedroom.”

She clutched her chest like I’d struck her.

“I was just trying to help you understand what Trevor really likes.”

That night, I told Trevor she needed to leave.

He sighed, exhausted. “Where’s she going to go? Her place won’t be ready for another month.”

“Your aunts, my parents, a hotel? I don’t care.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” he said. “She’s my mother.”

Something in his voice made my blood run cold.

“She’s my mother.” Not, “I know this is hard.” Not, “Let me talk to her.” Just automatic defense.

The next morning, I called my dad. By noon, I’d moved my essentials into my childhood bedroom. I texted Trevor.

I’m staying at my parents until your mother leaves. Not negotiable.

His response came an hour later.

You’re really going to abandon our marriage over this?

Abandon. As if I’d left him. Not his mother’s invasion.