10/01/2025
My husband had moved in with his mistress. Silently, I wheeled my bedridden mother-in-law into his new home and handed her over. Before leaving, I said something that left them both drained of color…
Miguel and I had been married for seven years. Our marriage wasn’t a fairy tale, but I devoted myself to raising our son and maintaining the home I had chosen. From the very day we wed, I agreed to live with my mother-in-law, a woman who had suffered a stroke, was partially paralyzed, and needed constant care—every meal, every nap, every little movement.
At first, I thought it would be straightforward: she was my mother-in-law, I was her daughter-in-law, and caring for her was simply my responsibility. But I hadn’t anticipated how long this burden would last, or how painful it would be to bear it largely alone, while the person who should have shared it—my husband—looked away.
He went to work each day, and at night he stayed glued to his phone. I took care of everything for his mother—feeding her, giving her water, administering her medications. He always told me,
“You’re better at caring for Mom than I am. If I try, she’ll suffer more.”
I didn’t resent him. I thought that was just how things were: the wife manages the household, the husband works. But then I explored he wasn’t just busy with work—he had someone else.
It all became clear when I accidentally read a message on his phone:
“I’ll come over tonight again. Being with you is a thousand times better than being at home.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. I simply asked gently,
“What are you going to do about your mother, the one you’ve ignored all these years?”
He stayed silent. The next day, he moved out. I knew he had gone to live with that woman. Despite my calls and messages, he didn’t respond. My mother-in-law, bedridden and unaware, still believed her son was busy at work and would return soon.
I looked at her—at the woman who had once criticized every bite I ate, every nap I took, who told me I was “unworthy of being her daughter-in-law.” A lump formed in my throat. I wanted to give up, to walk away entirely, but I reminded myself: dignity matters.
A week later, I called, “Are you free? I’ll bring your mother so you can care for her.”
There was silence for several seconds before the call ended.
That afternoon, I cleaned my mother-in-law, changed her clothes, folded her bedding, and packed her medications, hospital papers, and an old medical notebook into a cloth bag.
At night, I lifted her into her wheelchair and said softly, “Mom, I’m taking you to Miguel’s for a few days so you can get a change of scenery. Staying in the same spot all the time is dull.”
She nodded gently, eyes shining like a child’s. She didn’t know she was about to be returned to her own son, who had selected to abandon her.
When we arrived at a small apartment, I rang the doorbell. Miguel opened the door. Behind him stood the other woman, wearing a silk nightgown and red lipstick. Both of them froze as they watched me wheel my mother-in-law into the living room, her face glowing with delight.
I positioned the wheelchair, arranged blankets and pillows, and placed the medicine bag on the table. The house smelled strongly of perfume, yet it felt coldly quiet.
Miguel stammered, “What… what are you doing?”
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