When my husband, Jack, proposed selling my apartment to fund a house under his mother Linda’s name, I played along—but I had plans of my own. Neither he nor his scheming mother could have anticipated what was coming.
That apartment wasn’t just a place to live; it was my sanctuary, a symbol of the independence I’d worked so hard to achieve. When Jack moved in after we married, I thought we were building a life together. But I quickly realized Jack came with baggage—namely, his overbearing mother.
Linda’s disdain for me was no secret. She belittled everything about me—my cooking, my career—while Jack shrugged it off, saying, “That’s just how she is.” Her meddling reached new heights during a Sunday dinner.
Amid the aroma of roasted chicken, Linda smirked and said, “You should take notes, dear. A good home-cooked meal keeps a husband happy.” I bit my tongue as Jack nervously laughed and changed the subject, then dropped the bombshell:
“Babe, Mom and I think it’s a great idea to sell your apartment and my parents’ house so we can buy one big family home! Mom, Dad, us—maybe even my brother if he needs a place.”
I asked, “Who would own this house?”
“Mom, obviously,” Jack said nonchalantly.
Linda added with fake sweetness, “It’s practical, dear. Family should stick together!”
Inside, I was fuming, but I smiled. “You’re right. Let’s do it.”
Jack lit up. “Really?”
“Of course,” I said, handing over my apartment keys. “Let’s sell everything—my apartment, the cabin, even the car. Family first, right?”
Linda beamed, and that night I overheard their plan. “She’s so naive,” Linda said, laughing. “She even offered to sell the cabin and car.”
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