“We’re moving out next weekend. Mom and Dad are taking the house.”
I looked up from my coffee and waited for Trey to laugh.
He didn’t.
“Very funny. What’s the actual plan for Saturday?”
“I’m serious. Mom wants the house. She said you’d throw a fit, but I told her I’d handle you.”
“Handle me? Trey, that’s our house. You can’t just give it away.”
“I’ve already promised them.”
Six years. Six years of mortgage payments on our three-bedroom house, and he expected me to pack up and move into his parents’ tiny apartment so they could have it.
“You made this decision without me?”
“Mom was right. You always make everything difficult.”
I was furious. But some part of me still thought he was bluffing. Nobody actually does this.
His mother had never liked me. Not on the first day, not at the wedding, not once in the six years since.
“You’re not nearly good enough a homemaker to deserve a house like this,” she told me once, standing in my own living room.
And Trey said what he always said. “That’s just my mom. Please don’t make a scene.”
So I was used to it.
The next morning I came downstairs and his parents were in my kitchen, wrapping my plates in newspaper and putting them in boxes.
“What on earth are you doing?”
His mother smiled. “Getting ready to move in, obviously.”
“You’re packing my kitchen?”
She laughed. “It’s not your kitchen anymore.”
Trey was leaning in the doorway.
“You’re actually letting them do this?”
“Don’t start. I already told you how it’s going to be.”
“We never agreed to any of this!”
His mother wrapped another plate. “And what exactly are you going to do about it? We’re moving in whether you like it or not.”
I looked at the boxes. I looked at my husband, who looked very pleased with himself.
