Last Sunday, my husband came home with an air of finality, as if delivering an unshakable verdict. “Mom and I talked,” he announced. “We decided you should quit your job and work for her instead.”
I stared, waiting for the punchline. “I’m sorry, what?”
He crossed his arms. “Your job takes up too much of your time. Mom needs help, and she’ll even pay you—if you do it right.”
So, years of my hard work meant nothing?
I smiled sweetly. “Absolutely. I’ll quit right away.”
But my plan was already forming.
The next morning, I woke before sunrise, my mind racing. By 6:00 a.m., I was dressed—not in clothes fit for cleaning, but in my professional best.
At 7:00 a.m., my husband staggered into the kitchen, groggy. “You’re up early.”
I grinned. “Figured I should get started.”
At 8:30 a.m., I arrived at my mother-in-law’s house. She barely let me in before snapping, “You’re late.”
I checked my watch. “Three minutes late,” I murmured, stepping inside.
She handed me a list without another word. Cleaning, laundry, ironing. I nodded and got to work.
Day after day, I played the part. But I wasn’t just scrubbing floors—I was collecting proof.
Three weeks in, my mother-in-law answered a call. I heard my name.
“She’s been asking about shelters? That’s ridiculous. My son and I have everything under control.”
She knew.
She confronted me. “You don’t need to worry about nonsense like that.”
I met her gaze, unflinching. “You don’t want a maid. You want to control me.”
Her lips thinned. “Watch your tone.”
I smiled. “I’m done.”
That night, I packed my bags. My husband scoffed. “Where will you go?”
“Anywhere but here.”
Weeks later, I ran into my mother-in-law at the store. She smirked. “Paul’s doing fine without you.”
I shrugged. “So am I.”
And I walked away—free at last.
