«If cooking is such a burden to you, perhaps you should leavewell manage without you,» said my mother-in-law, backed by my husband.
I never imagined a single moment could unravel my life so completely. That betrayal would come not from strangers, but from those I trusted most. One conversation with Eleanor Whitakermy mother-in-lawand I knew I had only myself to rely on. It began, oddly enough, with a simple remark: «Mum needs to rest. Shes exhausted. Couldnt you go away for a few weeks so she isnt disturbed?» That was my husbands suggestion. The man I dreamed of growing old with. The one I had fed, clothed, supported in every way. And after all that, this?
Thomasmy husbandwas often away on business. He worked as a technician in factories, traveling across England. I never complained; he brought home a decent wage, and we lived comfortably. We stayed in my two-bedroom flat, inherited from my aunt. It suited him well enough, and me just fine. But every time he left, his mother would arrive unannounced. Eleanor Whitaker. No knock, no warning. Shed appear on the doorstep like a storm and immediately lay down her rules: what to cook, how to tidy, where to store the linens, which brands to buy.
I bit my tongue. I tried to be polite. I told myself she was elderly, lonelyId offer her kindness. But instead of gratitude, she met me with scorn. «You cant even make a proper stew,» «Theres dust everywhere,» «How will you raise children if you cant even peel potatoes properly?» Then it worsened. She demanded I leave. My own home. So she, weary and wretched, could «finally sleep.» Sleep! In my flat! Where was I to go? A friends? A hotel?
So I called Thomas, trembling with hope. I told him everything. I waited for his support. And he wasnt even surprised. «Mum really does need a break. Just bear with it, love. Go away for a bit, well talk later» He didnt ask where Id stay. He 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 understood then: there was no love left. Just a useful woman, good for cooking, cleaning, and 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 returned, collected his things without a word, 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 had dried the day he chose her over me. Now, I live. Quietly. Without quarrels. Without criticism. Without pain. Sometimes a thought of him tightens my chest. But then I remember his voice telling me to leave. And it gets easier. Because it wasnt me who left. It was him. The love was gone. But I remained. Strong. Whole. True.
And now, every morning, I wake knowing the day ahead is mine. No Eleanor Whitaker will ever dictate how I live again.
