“How long are you going to sit around, living off my son like a parasite?” Those were the cruel words my mother-in-law, Paula, spat at me, and they cut deep. But after teaching her an unforgettable lesson, she left in tears—and has never dared to question me again.
Paula firmly believed that husbands and wives should contribute equally to the household income. To her, money outweighed the importance of family and kids. She saw me as a “jobless housewife,” like raising three kids under five was a vacation. That’s when my nightmare began.
It was a regular Tuesday morning, and I was in the kitchen preparing breakfast for my twins while my baby girl fussed in her high chair. The doorbell rang, and I felt a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach. I knew who it was.
Paula stood at the door, wearing her usual look of disapproval. Without waiting for an invitation, she marched in, her eyes sweeping over the scattered toys in the living room.
“Still living like this, Macy?” she snapped. “How long are you going to sit around, living off my son like a parasite?”
I bit my tongue, forcing a polite smile. “Good morning, Paula. Would you like some coffee?”
She ignored me, heading straight to the kitchen. “Jobless, pretending to be a housewife. Pathetic!” she muttered as she looked at the pile of dishes in the sink. Her words stung, but I had trained myself to let them roll off my back.
That evening, as I lay in bed with my husband Jerry, I couldn’t shake Paula’s words from my mind.
“Honey, does it bother you that I don’t work outside the home?” I asked, turning to him.
Jerry frowned. “Where’s this coming from, Mace?”
I sighed, playing with the blanket. “I just… feel like I’m living off you.”
Jerry’s expression darkened. “That’s ridiculous. We decided together that you would stay home with the kids, remember? Raising our children is the most important job there is.”
His reassurance helped, but Paula’s words kept echoing in my head. I didn’t tell Jerry it was his mother fueling these doubts—I didn’t want to start a war between them.
Over the next few weeks, Paula’s visits became more frequent and her remarks more cutting. One day, she arrived while I was finishing mopping the floors. She walked in without wiping her shoes, leaving muddy footprints behind.
“Paula, could you use the mat and slippers by the door?” I asked politely.
She glared at me. “Are you saying I don’t know how to enter a house properly?”
I bit my lip, gesturing at the floor. “I just cleaned.”
“Oh, you cleaned? Isn’t that what you do all day while my son works? Or is even that too much effort for you?”
Her words felt like a slap. I stood there, gripping the mop, as she continued to insult me. “Still in your pajamas at 2 p.m.?” she asked, shaking her head. “When I was your age, I worked a full-time job and kept my house spotless. You’re just lazy!”
That was the final straw. Something snapped inside me.
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