“Get out of my house!” my mother-in-law shouted, completely forgetting that the apartment had been a gift from my parents; what I did next made both her and her son regret it…
“Get out of my house!” Marta screamed as she swept my favorite vase off the table with one sharp movement. It crashed onto the tiled floor and shattered with a harsh, ugly sound. “I told you to leave!”
I stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, a cup of coffee still in my hand. The hot liquid spilled over my fingers, burning my skin, but I didn’t even feel it.
“Marta, do you realize what you’re saying?” My voice trembled despite my effort to stay calm. “This apartment is mine.”
“Yours?!” She let out a cruel, almost hysterical laugh. “If it weren’t for my son, Thomas, you’d still be living in some rented room with damp walls! He earned everything! He did— not you, you lazy woman!”
I slowly placed the cup on the table. Inside, everything was boiling.
“Thomas? Earned it?” I smiled bitterly. “In three years of marriage, he hasn’t paid a single rupee. My parents bought this apartment for me before the wedding. Would you like to see the documents?”
Marta’s face instantly turned red, dark blotches appearing on her neck.
“You’re lying!” she yelled. “Thomas told me he bought this place! That he’s the owner! And you’re just staying here temporarily! Pack your things before I call the police!”
That was it. We had reached the breaking point. My husband had been inventing stories for years—and I was the main character in his ridiculous play.
Thomas was supposed to return from work in about an hour. I decided not to create a scene just yet. Let Marta stay a little longer in her illusion.
I quietly left the kitchen, locked myself in the bedroom, and called my husband.
“Hi, sweetheart. Your mother just broke a vase and is throwing me out of the apartment. She says it’s yours. Care to explain?”
On the other end of the line, there was a heavy, uncomfortable silence.
“Uh… Sophie, you know…” he stammered. “I didn’t want to worry my mother. I told her we bought the apartment together… that I was the main provider. It made her feel more secure.”
“More secure?” I gripped the phone tightly. “She’s kicking me out right now! Thomas, did you lie to her for three years?”
“Don’t exaggerate… I just dressed up the story a bit. I’m coming home, we’ll talk. Just hold on for another hour.”
I hung up and stood still, staring at the wall. From the kitchen came sharp footsteps, drawers slamming shut, murmurs filled with contempt. Marta had no intention of leaving. On the contrary, she was acting more confident by the minute—as if she truly owned the place.
After a few minutes, I walked back out. I wasn’t going to hide in my own home.
“Done with your call?” she said, arms crossed. “Then start packing. I won’t tolerate you here much longer.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Marta,” I said calmly, surprising even myself. “This is my apartment. And it will remain so.”
“We’ll see!” she scoffed. “When Thomas arrives, he’ll tell the truth. Unlike you.”
For the first time since it all began, I smiled—a tired but steady smile.
“The truth doesn’t need to be summoned. It arrives on its own.”
When the front door opened, Marta jumped to her feet. Thomas walked in hurriedly, his face tense, dropping his bag on the floor.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, avoiding my eyes.
“Tell her!” Marta exploded. “Tell her the apartment is yours! Prove I’m not crazy!”
Thomas swallowed hard. He finally looked at me, then lowered his gaze.
“Mom… we need to talk.”
“Then talk!” she almost screamed.
“The apartment… it isn’t mine,” he said quietly. “It belongs to Sophie. Her parents bought it. I didn’t contribute anything.”
The words fell heavy, like stones. Marta froze, her mouth hanging open.
“What nonsense are you saying?” she whispered. “You told me that—”
“I know what I told you,” he interrupted. “I lied.”
“You lied?!” Her voice rose sharply. “For years?”
“Yes.”
A suffocating silence filled the room. Marta slowly sank into a chair, as if her legs could no longer hold her.
“Then… what am I doing here?” she murmured.
“You’re a guest,” I said. “But after what you did today, I don’t think you should stay.”
She looked at me with hatred, then turned to her son.
“You’re throwing me out because of her?”
“Because of the truth,” Thomas replied. “And because you were wrong.”
She stood up abruptly, grabbed her coat and handbag.
“Don’t ever come looking for me again,” she said. “You’ve made your choice.”
The door slammed shut. An eerie, painful emptiness filled the apartment.
Thomas turned toward me.
“Sophie… I’m sorry. I just wanted to look better in her eyes.”
“And in mine?” I asked. “What did you want to look like to me?”
He didn’t answer.
“You let her believe I was nothing,” I continued. “You allowed me to be humiliated in my own home. That’s not ‘keeping the peace.’ That’s cowardice.”
“I can fix this,” he said quickly. “I promise.”
“No,” I shook my head. “Some things can’t be fixed. You learn from them—and you move on.”
That night, Thomas slept on the sofa. The next morning, I told him I wanted a divorce. He didn’t protest. Perhaps, for the first time, he was honest.
A few weeks later, the apartment was quiet again. I bought a new vase—simple, unadorned. Not to replace the broken one, but to remind myself of one thing:
The truth, no matter how painful, makes less noise than a lie—but it remains unbroken.