Shortened Version:
When Nathan and I married, my only condition was: let’s get our own place.
“We will,” he said, “but let’s stay with my parents for now—no rent or utilities. We’ll save fast and be out by Christmas.”
I should’ve trusted the voice in my head that screamed “no.”
Nevertheless, I agreed. We moved into his old childhood room—a house decked in lace and plastic, where touching anything felt like setting off an alarm.
His mother observed my every move with that tight smile: “We use the good dishes for Sunday only.” His father barely talked—unless it was to correct something trivial.
I quietly cleaned, cooked, folded, and existed like a ghost in someone else’s home.
Every night, Nathan would whisper reassurance: “It’s just temporary. We’ll have our own place soon.” Which soon turned into a full year.
Then, one day, his father splashed my freshly mopped floor with dirty boots. “Could you be more careful?” I asked quietly. He exploded—“Who do you think you are? I built this house!” I stood my ground, listing the chores I’d done, realizing they still saw me as a stranger, not family.
I gave Nathan an ultimatum: seven days to move out, or I was gone. Suddenly, he remembered an unused cottage his uncle owned. That weekend, we left.
Years later, we bought our own cozy two-bedroom, messy, bright, filled with laughter—and last month, I found out I’m pregnant. We talked about baby things—everything except his parents. His father still hasn’t spoken to me. His mother tries to call, usually when she needs something. Once, she awkwardly apologized on his behalf. That’s as close as I’ll ever get.