When my husband, Greg, suggested we live separately for a month to “refresh our marriage,” I reluctantly agreed, hoping it would bring us closer. Then my neighbor called, saying a woman was in our bedroom, and what I discovered crushed my trust and led me to start over. Greg brought it up one morning, his voice cheerful. “It’ll be great, Jen,” he said. “A little space will make us miss each other, like when we first met.” I wasn’t sold—why live apart? But he was so sure, so I moved into a rental across town, telling myself it was temporary. The first week was quiet. Greg rarely called, saying he was “busy.” I held onto hope for our reunion, trying to ignore the loneliness.
My friend, Laura, came over one day, concerned. “This doesn’t feel right, Jen,” she said, slicing cheese for a snack. “Why does Greg want you out?” I admitted it felt odd but trusted his reasoning. Then, one Saturday evening, my phone buzzed. “Jen, come home quick,” my neighbor, Diane, said urgently. “I saw a woman in your bedroom window.” My stomach dropped. Was Greg cheating? I raced home, bursting through the door and up to our bedroom. There was Greg’s mom, Carol, surrounded by my clothes, holding my silk blouse with a scowl. “What’s this?” I yelled. She looked unfazed. “Jen, you’re back. I’m cleaning up. These clothes aren’t right for a wife.”
I gaped as she pointed to bags stuffed with my skirts, tops, and lingerie. “Greg asked me to sort this,” she said. “Your style doesn’t fit a proper home.” Fury rose. “You’re throwing out my things?” I snapped. Carol shrugged. “Greg deserves better. The house is a mess.” Her nerve floored me—she’d always nitpicked my cleaning, but this was too far. “Where’s Greg?” I demanded. “Errands,” she said casually. “He knows I’m here.” When Greg returned, he seemed irritated. “Why are you here?” he asked. “Diane saw someone,” I said. “Your mom’s destroying my stuff!” He sighed. “She’s helping. The house is filthy, Jen.” I snapped, “You leave dishes everywhere, Greg. The fridge is sticky from your snacks. And this break was supposed to fix us, not let your mom control me!”
He groaned. “You’re blowing this up. Mom’s just helping.” I shook my head. “This isn’t help—it’s disrespect. You don’t see me as a partner.” I packed my remaining clothes and left. Three days later, I called a lawyer. This wasn’t just about Carol—it was Greg showing he wanted a servant, not a wife. I’m filing for divorce, staying with Laura. She asked, “What hurt most?” I said, “Greg thought I wasn’t enough.” Laura smiled. “You used to love photography. Where’s that Jen?” I realized I’d lost myself. Now, I’ve rented a place with a darkroom, ready to rediscover my passion and leave Greg and Carol behind.
