My Mil Slapped Me For Choosing My Dying Mother Over A Thanksgiving Turkey. My Husband Watched And Did Nothing. I Just Cut The Power And Canceled Their Feast, So Why Do I Feel Like The Villain?
The Ultimatum
“If you take one single step out that door, don’t you ever think of coming back. I don’t care if you get on your knees and beg; I will never open it for you again. If I leave, who will prepare the Thanksgiving dinner?”
My cheek burned as if scorched by my mother-in-law’s hand, but my heart was strangely calm. In that moment, I had a sudden realization: every last dollar I had to buy even a bag of groceries in this god-forsaken house was money my own sick mother had secretly pressed into my hand.
I looked at my belongings scattered on the floor. I didn’t cry; I simply picked up my phone and, for one minute, did what I had to do. The next day, when the relatives descended upon the house like a tidal wave, the sight of my mother-in-law’s face drained of all color was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
The Call That Changed Everything
The late November air in Queens, New York, was a mix of dry, dusty grit and the faint, sweet smell of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor. Emily stood in front of a small closet, her stiff fingers fumbling through neatly folded underwear. Her phone screen was still lit, displaying the text message from her aunt:
“Mom collapsed at the market. It’s a brain hemorrhage. They’re in emergency surgery now. Get to Mount Sinai fast.”
It was a short message. She was reading it for the fourth time.
The underwear in the closet was organized by color, from lightest to darkest. It was a rule her mother-in-law had established on the very first day Emily married into this family.
“A woman’s closet is a reflection of her soul, dear. A messy closet means a messy woman.”
Eleanor had said it with the condescending air of a duchess bestowing wisdom upon a simple country girl. Emily pulled out two tank tops. The straps of the white one were already pilling, but she had no other choice. In five years of marriage, she hadn’t bought a single new piece of clothing for herself.
It wasn’t that she didn’t have the money; it was because every single expense had to be audited by her mother-in-law.
“How much was this? Where do you think you’re going dressed like that? Who are you trying to impress?”
She grew so tired of the questions that she simply stopped buying anything. Her suitcase was the same one she’d brought from her parents’ home when she got married: a 20-inch dark navy blue. The zipper was a little sticky.
Emily knelt on the floor and began to pack. In the quiet room, the sound of her forcing the zipper shut was piercingly sharp. Underwear, pajamas, a spare pair of jeans, a pouch with her toiletries—she shoved them all in.
Mom is in surgery. The thought jabbed at her temples every few seconds like a rusty nail. She wanted to cry, but though her eyes burned and ached, the tears were damned up somewhere deep inside, refusing to come out. After five years of marriage, it seemed she had even forgotten how to cry.
From the living room, the sound of the television drifted in. It was the trashy daytime soap opera her mother-in-law loved. The female lead was screeching at her husband, accusing him of an affair. Emily had listened to that sound for five years straight. The volume on that channel was always fixed at 23—not too loud, not too soft, just loud enough to soak every corner of the house in the messy lives of other people.
