When Hope welcomes her new husband into her house, she did not expect his mother to arrive with a suitcase and a storm of control.
I met Scott in the most horribly cliché way imaginable.
He called his mom every day, which I thought was extremely kind at the time. Scott’s father died not long before we met, and he stepped into that role with such care and firmness.
Scott moved in with me after we married. I acquired it from my aunt and spent five years making it a home.
A week into married life, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Gloria, his mother, standing on the porch with two massive suitcases.
“I’m here to help you both adjust, Hope,” she said.
“She’s just… moving in? Without asking me first? Or just speaking about it in general? Scott… really?” I kept my voice steady, but I could feel the heat rising behind my eyes.
“She’s been alone since Dad passed away,” he said softly.
“She’s struggling, Hope. I thought having her here might help. And she can help us around the house, too.”
I paused, trying to be generous. But this was my house, my space… the one place I felt in control of my own life.
“I get that,” I said slowly. “But two months. That’s it. I mean it, Scott. Two months and then it’s time for her to go.”
My husband nodded, kissed my forehead, and promised it would only be temporary.
From the very beginning, Gloria treated me less like a daughter-in-law and more like a squatter. She moved through my home like a critic walking through a half-finished museum.
She once called my living room “quaint,” and I couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or an insult.
I work from home. My job is demanding and detail-oriented, and Gloria seemed to think it was make-believe.
