I used to believe moms loved their sons more. But when I met my husband John’s mother, Constance, that illusion shattered.
John and I were saving for a house, living with my parents in tight quarters. When we asked Constance if we could stay with her, she refused—claiming John should “provide like a man.” Meanwhile, her daughter Lisa and husband Anthony lived rent-free in her spacious home.
Months later, Constance suddenly offered us an old, neglected house she inherited. We used our savings to renovate it from top to bottom. Just when we finished, she dropped the bomb—Lisa was pregnant, and she wanted them to move in instead.
We were heartbroken. Constance gave us a week to leave, even threatening the police. So we packed up—and took everything with us. Floors, fixtures, cabinets—gone. The house looked just like when she first handed us the key.
When she found out, she exploded. But we were done. John cut ties, and we walked away with dignity.
Thankfully, my parents had quietly saved money for us. With their help, we put a down payment on a new home—ours.
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