Our first home was supposed to be a fresh start—a cozy two-bedroom apartment gifted to us by my parents. But at our housewarming party, my husband and his mother revealed their true intentions.
As friends and family celebrated, my mother-in-law, Barbara, raised her glass for a toast. What followed wasn’t well-wishes but a demand: “Katie (my sister-in-law) deserves this apartment more,” she declared. To my shock, my husband, Alex, nodded in agreement. “We’ll move in with Mom,” he said casually, as if handing over our home was no big deal.
But my mother had seen this coming. Before Barbara could finish her speech, Mom quietly said, “Give them the papers.” I handed Alex the deed—with only my name on it. Thanks to a prenup, everything my parents had contributed remained mine.
The room fell silent. Barbara’s smug smile vanished. Alex stammered, but I had already made my decision. “You’re not staying here,” I told him. “Not after this.”
A week later, he begged for forgiveness. But the betrayal was too deep. “Love isn’t enough without respect,” I said, watching him walk away for good.
Stepping outside afterward, I took a deep breath. The air smelled like freedom—and like my home.
