I married a man who never really left his mother’s house—he just brought it with him. Every meal I cooked, she insulted. Every corner of our apartment, she claimed. And my husband? He smiled through it all, calling her devotion love.
Then came the car. A brand-new BMW, gifted by his retired mother. My gut twisted—how did she afford it? Weeks later, I had my answer. She sold her apartment… and showed up on my doorstep with suitcases, expecting to move in.
“I gave everything for my son’s happiness,” she declared. And Oleg? He said I should apologize to her.
That’s when I knew. I wasn’t part of a marriage. I was the third wheel in a twisted mother-son duet.
So I ended it.
Six months later, I sit alone in my sunny, quiet apartment—mine, truly mine. No borscht bubbling on the stove, no footsteps I dread. Just peace.
