The day we moved into our first apartment, I was floating on air. It was a modest place, but it was ours—made possible by my parents’ generous wedding gift. When we hosted our housewarming party, I was bursting with pride, showing off the home we’d built together.
Then, my mother-in-law shattered the illusion.
“Katie should live here,” Barbara declared, gesturing to Alex’s sister. “She’s a single mom—she needs it more. You two can stay with me.”
I waited for Alex to shut it down. Instead, he nodded. “Yeah, we could make that work.”
The room fell silent. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
Before I could speak, my father intervened. “This apartment is in Mo’s name. Legally, it’s hers.”
Barbara scoffed. Alex looked stunned.
The party ended soon after, the mood irreparably broken.
When Alex came crawling back days later, full of apologies, I listened. But the trust was gone.
“You didn’t just make a decision without me,” I told him. “You tried to give away my home.”
In the end, I chose myself. Because a home should be sacred—and no one, not even your husband, should have the power to take it from you.
