“If cooking is such a burden for you, maybe you should leavewell manage without you,” said my mother-in-law, backed by my husband. “If its so difficult for you to cook, why not go and let us get on without you?” she snapped, and my husband nodded in agreement.
I never imagined my life could unravel so quickly. The betrayal didnt come from outside but from those I trusted most. One conversation with Evelyn Hartmy mother-in-lawand I knew I had only myself to rely on. It started, oddly enough, with a simple remark: “Mum needs rest. Shes exhausted. Couldnt you go away for a few weeks so she isnt disturbed?” Thats what my husband said. The man Id dreamed of growing old with. The one Id fed, clothed, supported in everything. And this was how it ended?
Theomy husbandwas away on another work trip. He was a technician in factories, often travelling across England. I never complainedhe earned well, and we lived comfortably. We stayed in my two-bedroom flat, inherited from my aunt. He was content; I had my peace. But every time he left, his mother would turn up unannounced. Evelyn Hart. No knock, no warning. Shed appear on the doorstep like a storm, enforcing her rules at once: what to cook, how to clean, where to put the linens, which products to buy.
I stayed quiet. Tried to be polite. Told myself she was older, aloneId give her kindness. But instead of gratitude, I got only criticism. “You cant even make proper soup,” “Theres dust everywhere,” “How will you raise children if you cant even peel potatoes?” Then it got worse. She demanded I leave. My own home. So she, tired and miserable, could “finally sleep.” Sleepin my flat! Where would I go? A friends? A hotel?
So I called Theo, shaking with hope. Told him everything. Waited for his support. And him? He wasnt even surprised. “Mum really needs rest. Be kindput up with it. Go away for a bit, well talk later” He didnt ask where Id go. Didnt offer to pay for a room. Not a word to remind me I was his wife, the mistress of the house, the mother of his future children.
That was the end. I understoodthere was no love left. Just a practical woman, good for cooking, cleaning, serving. No tenderness, no respect. I told him, “If you want to stay with your mother, stay. But I want a divorce.” He didnt argue. Silence. A few days later, he came back, packed his things quietly, and left to join her in her hometown. And I stayed. In my flat. Alone. Empty.
I didnt cry. I was past that. My tears ran dry the day he chose her over me. Now, I live. Quietly. Without arguments. Without criticism. Without pain. Sometimes, a thought of him tightens my chest. But I remember his voice telling me to leave. And its better. Because I wasnt the one who left. He did. The love left. I stayed. Strong. Whole. True.
And now, every morning, I wake knowing the day is mine. And no oneno Evelyn Hartwill tell me how to live.
