“How long?”
“A few weeks. Maybe a couple of months.”
I slowly pushed my laptop shut. “And when exactly were you planning to consult your wife?”
“She’s my mother, Claire.”
“I know who she is.”
Mark nervously rattled off a list of excuses: Diane’s rent had increased, she hated her apartment, and she was lonely. But the kicker? His sister, Lisa, couldn’t take her in because Lisa needed her spare room for her home office.
I stared blankly at the wall. “So Lisa’s office is strictly protected, but mine is completely disposable?”
“You’re only home three days a week,” he deflected. “We can just shove your desk upstairs.”
That was the exact moment the illusion of my marriage shattered. This wasn’t a partnership. It wasn’t a discussion. They had held a secret family meeting and unilaterally decided what I was required to sacrifice. My office. My space. My home.
My arrogant mother-in-law actually dialed 911 and demanded the police force me out of my own doorway so she could move her luggage into “her son’s”house.
