My name is Liz, and I’m 35. Six months ago, I was married to Tom—a kind man who made me laugh and brought me coffee in bed. We dreamed of children but tried for four painful years without success. Fertility treatments failed, and eventually, Tom gave up. He left me for his pregnant secretary.
Heartbroken, I moved back in with my parents, who welcomed me with love. But soon, my brother Ryan and his pregnant wife, Madison, moved in. She treated me like a maid—demanding meals, chores, and late-night snack runs—while Ryan did nothing. My parents were too distracted by the baby excitement to notice.
One night, Madison woke me at 2:30 a.m. for chips. That was the breaking point. The next morning, I called my friend Elise, who connected me with a kind woman needing help at home. I got the job—and a place to stay.
At dinner, I calmly told my parents I was moving out. Madison, thrilled, claimed the bigger bathroom. I left without drama. Weeks later, my parents asked Ryan and Madison to leave after she insulted my mom over a cold omelet. My mom called in tears, apologizing.
Now, I’m living with Mrs. Chen, feeling useful again. For the first time in a long while, I can finally breathe.
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