After our wedding, my husband moved into my house. A week later, his mom showed up uninvited, saying she’d live with us “to help.” I agreed—for two months. A week in, she slapped my soup out of my hands, barking, “If you don’t work, you don’t eat!” I work from home as a graphic designer, and it was my house.
She began controlling everything: my food, my clothes, even my grandmother’s gold pendant disappeared. My husband, Kiran, refused to intervene. One evening, I overheard her whispering, “She’s too soft. He needs someone to give him real children,” knowing I’d had a miscarriage.
I started documenting everything: texts, photos, even nanny cam footage. At a dinner party, she insulted me in front of Kiran’s boss. I handed him the evidence. His reaction? “You’re blowing this out of proportion.” I left.
With help from his sister, I discovered a pattern—his mom had done the same to his dad’s first wife. Kiran tried to contest the divorce, but my documented proof of abuse won. I kept the house, my name, and my peace.
A year later, my business thrives, Renuka and I stay close, and I’ve learned: love isn’t about sacrificing your sanity. Sometimes, the bravest act is walking away.
