At my mother’s funeral, my mother-in-law stood there with a smug grin, completely unfazed by the grief in the air.
As if the sorrow of losing my mother wasn’t enough, she boldly declared, “This house will be inherited by my son.”
She then wandered through the rooms, casually inspecting them as if she were shopping for furniture.
“I wonder if I should take this one,” she mused, running her hand along the walls.
I forced a polite smile and firmly corrected her. “Actually, I’m the one inheriting this house.”
Without missing a beat, she chuckled. “Oh, I know. But isn’t it true that a wife’s belongings belong to her husband? So in a way, this house belongs to my son, right?”
I sighed, baffled by her audacity.
Before I could even respond, she cheerfully added, “Anyway, from now on, let’s try to get along.”
I hesitated. “What do you mean by get along?”
She beamed, completely ignoring the grief on my face. “Well, I’ll be moving in, of course. This will be my room.”
Shocked, I asked, “You mean we’ll be living together?”
“Exactly,” she said with confidence. “A house this big shouldn’t go to waste. It makes perfect sense for three people to live here instead of leaving so many rooms empty, don’t you think?”
I clenched my fists, my heart aching from the loss of my mother.
Did she really think this was the right time to bring up something so ridiculous?
Couldn’t she see my pain?
This house wasn’t just a building. It held years of precious memories, built by my hardworking father and cherished by my loving mother.
The thought of my overbearing mother-in-law taking over made my stomach turn.
Worse, my husband just stood there, saying nothing to stop her.
I knew I had to take control before she forced her way in.
But let me take a step back.
I’m a 43-year-old office worker. Marriage wasn’t something I ever thought would happen for me. I had given up on the idea after turning 40, but then, through an acquaintance, I met Paul.
He was 5 years younger than me, kind, and always put my opinions first.
When we were planning our honeymoon, he asked, “Where should we go? You mentioned wanting to visit Europe, right?”
I smiled. “Yes, but didn’t you say you preferred Singapore?”
“Then let’s go to Singapore,” he said without hesitation.
At that time, I truly believed he was someone who valued my feelings.
But now, as I watched him stay silent while his mother took control, doubt crept into my heart.
A few months after our wedding, he dropped a bombshell.
“My mom wants to live with us,” he said one evening. “My dad’s health isn’t great, and she’s struggling to handle things on her own.”
I frowned. “I understand that she’s going through a tough time, but didn’t we agree before marriage that we wouldn’t live together with her?”
He looked away, avoiding my gaze.
And in that moment, I realized this battle wasn’t just with my mother-in-law.
It was with my husband too.
I hesitated for a moment before asking, “Are you really going to talk to your mom about this?”
My husband nodded. “You’re right. I’ll bring it up with her.”
Paul was the type of man who always listened to me, no matter how small my concerns were. I appreciated it, but sometimes I felt guilty, like I was being too selfish.
It was a blessing to have a husband as kind as him.
Yet there was one regret that always lingered in my heart.
My father had passed away years before I got married.
He never got to see me in my wedding dress, never had the chance to walk me down the aisle, and never got the reassurance that I had found someone who would love and care for me.
My father had been a strict but hardworking man. He was an executive at a small to medium-sized company. Even though his business wasn’t large, he earned a decent income, and our family home was big enough to hold gatherings and even funerals.
I deeply respected him.
When I started working as an office employee, I began to understand the real struggles of maintaining a job, dealing with responsibilities, and carrying the weight of expectations.
My admiration for my father only grew with time. The sacrifices he had made for our family became clearer to me, and I wished I could have told him just how much I appreciated everything he did.
Then, 3 years after my marriage, another tragedy struck.
My mother passed away.
“Eve, your mom…” my husband murmured, his voice filled with concern. “Are you okay? You should take a break in the back room.”
Funerals at home weren’t very common anymore, but I had chosen to hold my mother’s ceremony in our family house, just like we did for my father.