Last Sunday, my husband walked through the door with a smug expression, as if he had just struck a deal with fate. “They decided,” he declared, “that you should quit your job and work as my mom’s maid instead.”
I blinked, stunned. Surely, I misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”
His arms folded. “Your job takes too much of your time. Mom needs help, and she’ll even pay you—if you do it right.”
Ah, so my career—years of dedication and hard work—was now reduced to some pocket change for house chores.
I forced a sugary smile. “You know what? You’re absolutely right. I’ll quit immediately.”
They had no idea what was coming.
The next morning, I woke up at 5:00 a.m., not to clean but because I couldn’t sleep. His words played over in my head, fueling the fire inside me. By 6:00 a.m., I was showered and dressed—not in old clothes fit for scrubbing floors, but in sleek black pants and a sharp blouse. If they thought I’d act like a submissive maid, they were sorely mistaken.
By 7:00 a.m., my husband trudged into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looked at me, puzzled. “You’re up early.”
I flashed a bright, fake smile. “Figured I’d start my first day as your mother’s maid bright and early.”
The sarcasm went right over his head.
At 8:30 a.m., I arrived at my mother-in-law’s house. She opened the door before I even knocked. “You’re late,” she said sharply.
I glanced at my watch—8:33 a.m.
“Three minutes late,” I murmured. “I’ll be sure to adjust my schedule.”
She didn’t acknowledge my words. Instead, she handed me a list: floors, bathrooms, windows, laundry. I took it with a smile that masked my growing anger.
For days, I played along, scrubbing, folding, and smiling through gritted teeth. But I wasn’t just cleaning—I was gathering evidence.
Three weeks in, she got a call. I overheard my name.
“What do you mean, she was asking about job openings at a women’s shelter?” she hissed.
My stomach clenched. She knew.
She turned to me, eyes cold. “You’re not leaving.”
I met her gaze, calm and steady. “I already have.”
That night, I packed my bags. My husband looked bewildered. “You’re overreacting.”
I laughed. “Overreacting? You wanted me to be your mother’s servant. I’m choosing freedom.”
I walked out and never looked back.
Weeks later, I saw my mother-in-law at the store. She sneered. “Paul’s doing just fine without you.”
I smiled. “Good for him.”
Then I turned and walked away—toward a better future.