I always believed mothers loved their sons more than daughters, but my own upbringing proved that wrong. My sister and I were treated equally by our parents.
When I met John’s mother, Constance, I was shocked. John and I had been saving for our own home, so we temporarily lived with my parents. We’d hoped to stay with Constance, but she refused, saying it was John’s responsibility to provide.
Despite this, she welcomed her other son-in-law, Anthony, and his family without question. Eventually, Constance called and surprised us with a house—her father’s old property. It was in disrepair, but we could fix it up, so we agreed.
Months of hard work followed, and we put in everything we had to make the house livable. But when we celebrated our progress, Constance dropped a bombshell: she wanted Lisa, her daughter, to move in because Lisa was expecting a baby. She demanded we leave.
I was furious. After everything we had done, she expected us to give up the house for Lisa. I confronted her, and she showed no remorse.
In the end, we moved out and returned the house to Constance, stripped of everything we had worked for. When she stormed into my parents’ house, we calmly showed her the empty house, reminding her it was exactly how she gave it to us.
Later, my parents surprised us with money to help us buy our own home. We were forever grateful for their support, especially after everything we’d been through with Constance.
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