“But Robert, we built that bedroom together. I’ve lived in that house for fifty years.”
He raised his voice.
“So what? My mother gave me life. You’re just my wife.”
Those words pierced my heart like a knife. Our eldest daughter, Sarah, tried to intervene.
“Dad, don’t talk to Mom like that!”
But Robert snapped back angrily.
“This is MY house. I decide who lives where!”
At that moment, my mother-in-law, who was sitting on the other side of the hall, raised her head. She had been silently
watching everything.
When our eyes met, I thought I noticed a faint smile on her face. I slowly sat back down.
I remembered my younger years. Working night shifts at the hospital.
Sometimes going without new clothes so we could make the mortgage payments.
Raising our children. Sitting beside Robert during the years when he was seriously ill.
And now, in front of one hundred people, he was telling me that I was just his wife.
