I was so in love, it felt like the air I breathed. Every moment with them was pure magic, a silent promise of forever whispered between stolen glances and shared dreams. We had plans, big ones. A future. So when the suggestion came to move in together, even if it meant moving into their childhood home – with their mother – I didn’t hesitate. It was a step towards our life, a compromise I was more than willing to make. Anything for us.
The first few weeks were a honeymoon phase, despite the ever-present shadow of their mother. She was… particular. Demanding, yes, but I told myself it was just a mother protecting her child. I tried to be the perfect houseguest, the perfect future family member. I cooked, I cleaned, I stayed quiet. I wanted to prove I was worthy.
Then came the conversation. One evening, after my partner had left for a late shift, their mother sat me down at the kitchen table. Her face was devoid of warmth, her eyes like chips of ice. “We need to discuss your contribution,” she stated, not asked. My heart sank. I knew what she meant. I offered to help with groceries, utilities. I was already doing my share of chores.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Sora
“No,” she cut me off, her voice flat. “Financial. A monthly amount. Rent.”
Rent. To live with my partner. In a house that wasn’t even truly hers, but the family home. I looked around, bewildered. My partner made good money. Why was this suddenly on me? I looked for an out, a flicker of understanding. There was none. She named a figure. It was substantial. It was more than I paid for my own apartment.
I felt a cold dread creep through me. I mumbled something about talking to my partner. “This is how we do things here,” she said, rising from the table. “It’s non-negotiable if you want to stay.”
When my partner came home, I tried to talk to them. They just shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “She’s always been like that,” they said, avoiding my gaze. “It’s just… her way. You know how she is about money.” But this was different. This was extortion. This was about me. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. Was I being tested? Was this a rite of passage? My partner offered no real support, no pushback. They just stood there, letting their mother dictate the terms of our future. I was forced to choose between paying a ridiculous sum or losing the person I loved.
I chose them. I always chose them.
Every month, the payment felt like a fresh wound. It was always cash, always collected personally by their mother. Never a receipt, never a thank you. Just a cold, calculating look as she counted the bills. My savings dwindled. I stopped going out with friends, making excuses about being “busy.” I bought cheap groceries, skipped meals sometimes. My clothes started to look worn. My bank account balance became a source of constant anxiety. Was this what love looked like? Was this sacrifice enough?
The longer it went on, the more distant I felt from everything but the struggle. I was exhausted, emotionally drained. My partner seemed oblivious, or maybe they just didn’t want to see. They still spoke of our future, of buying our own place “someday.” And I believed them, clung to those words like a lifeline. I paid, I starved, I isolated myself, all for that someday. All for them.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Sora
One afternoon, I was home alone with their mother, who was surprisingly absent-minded that day. She’d gone out, leaving her desk slightly ajar. A flash of something colourful caught my eye. A small photo album. I knew I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t. But my curiosity, sharpened by months of simmering resentment and confusion, got the better of me.
I pulled it out. It was filled with pictures of a child. A young child, maybe five or six. Dark hair, bright eyes. A beautiful little girl. My heart gave a little flutter. A cousin? A niece? I’d never seen these photos. Then I saw a birth certificate tucked inside the album. My hands trembled as I carefully unfolded it.
The child’s name was unfamiliar. But the mother’s name… it was unfamiliar too. And the father’s name… MY PARTNER’S NAME.
My blood ran cold. I couldn’t breathe. MY PARTNER. My partner had a child. My partner had a secret child with another woman. The dates on the birth certificate… it was years before we even met.
I flipped through the album again, my vision blurring. There were pictures of my partner, smiling, holding this little girl. Pictures of their mother – my future mother-in-law – beaming, holding the child, in what looked like a different house, a different life.
Then, tucked under the birth certificate, I saw it. A bank statement. Not for their mother’s account. Not for my partner’s. But for the account of the other woman listed as the child’s mother. And listed among the regular, significant deposits? My exact “rent” amount. Every single month. For the last year.
The world tilted. The air left my lungs. MY ENTIRE WORLD WAS A LIE.
The rent. The insane, draining, soul-crushing rent I was forced to pay. It wasn’t for their mother. It wasn’t for their house. It was to support my partner’s secret family. My money, my sacrifices, my broken dreams were all funding a life my partner was living with someone else, all while they promised me a future. And their mother, the cold, calculating woman who collected my cash, was an accomplice. She knew. She was orchestrating it. SHE MADE ME PAY FOR HER GRANDCHILD’S UPKEEP.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels
I sank to the floor, the album scattering around me. The pictures of that beautiful child, innocent and unaware, stared up at me. My partner’s smiling face. Their mother’s conniving smirk. Every interaction, every lie, every painful sacrifice I made – it all replayed in my mind, twisted into a grotesque, mocking farce.
The love I felt, the future I envisioned, the trust I’d so completely given… it shattered into a million sharp, unforgiving pieces. And the only thing left in its place was a deafening, EMPTY ache.
