When I met Andrew, it felt calm and real—no games, no drama. I was 35; he’d been married before, but he spoke of it casually. I thought that meant maturity. His family welcomed me like I belonged—his mom squeezed my hands and said they’d been waiting for me. Everyone told me how lucky I was.
After we married, the praise continued, but soon came the comments. His mom dismissed my career, criticized how I ran our home, and pushed for babies. A woman at her birthday whispered that the last wife was adored—until she wasn’t, because she said no. I laughed it off, but the message sank in.
Small comments became pressure to quit my job, cook more, put family first. Andrew mostly defended his mother, saying I was stressed or “thinking the worst of her.” When his mom openly said I needed to be more “present” and a “real wife,” I felt shut out of our own life.
At her birthday a year later, she toasted for grandchildren and a wife who knows her place. That was the moment I saw it wasn’t miscommunication—it was design. I stood up, agreed with her, and placed divorce papers in front of them. Andrew called it bad timing; I told him he’d chosen his mother.
I left. I didn’t shout or cry—I just walked out. Now I’m 36 and divorcing, finally choosing myself.