My instinct warned me there was a problem when Sam proposed that the kids and I take a surprise vacation. His strange conduct begged for suspicion of adultery, but when I came home early to find him in the deed, I had to face a darker reality.
When Sam proposed the “vacation,” I should have sensed something wasn’t right. He’d never been the kind to think things through; he was more likely to forget our anniversary than to organize an unexpected trip.
And yet, there he was, exuding frenetic energy and twitchy smiles, instructing me to get the children and head to the Marriott for a week.
Without quite looking me in the eye, he remarked, “You deserve a break, Cindy.”
“Take Alison and Phillip, and enjoy yourselves.”
I attempted to look him in the eye.
“You won’t be joining us?”
Throughout our eight years together, I had learned to recognize the unmistakable sign of discomfort when he scratched the back of his neck. I have a major project at work. Deadlines, well, you know the drill. But anyway, I guess the kids will enjoy it.
How do I put it? Sam had already made reservations, and the kids were ecstatic. However, while I was packing our things that evening, a knot started to form in my stomach—the kind of gut instinct that tells you something is off.
The initial days spent at the motel were a haze of pandemonium smelling like chlorine. I hardly had time to think between Alison’s insistence on “just five more minutes” in the pool and Phillip’s tantrum over the “wrong” chicken nuggets.
However, when the youngsters eventually fell asleep at night, that persistent feeling returned.
By the fourth day, worst-case scenarios were racing through my head. Was there a different female present? The thought felt like a kick to the stomach. I imagined a lanky blonde in my kitchen, sipping coffee from my mug and dozing off in my bed.
It was more than I could handle. I hired a babysitter to watch the kids overnight on the fifth night, and I went home to catch him red-handed.
The journey back was a blur, with the city lights flickering by in angular patterns while I clenched my fingers around the steering wheel.
Every turn made my stomach turn, and I was filled with questions I wasn’t sure how to respond to
. I felt sick to my stomach at the idea of approaching him, confronting her.
However, nothing—not even my darkest fantasies—could have ready me for what was truly behind that door.
It was like entering a dream when I opened the front door and went inside. The calm in the house was disturbing. After looking around the room, I finally noticed her.
My mother-in-law, Helen, was sprawled out on my couch as if she owned it. Not only that, but she was drinking tea from my favorite mug. Dozens of suitcases lay strewn and piled all about her, a garish exhibition of travel gear and shopping expeditions.
She appeared to have taken control, acting as though I was an invader and this was her house.
“Well, well,” she growled, her voice like a knife slicing through the dense tension. She didn’t even try to get to her feet. Over the years, I’d grown to detest her arched eyebrow, which expressed a sense of superiority. “See who returned early?”
With my hand still holding onto the doorframe for stability, I froze. The room tilted, and I felt my vision constrict as blood spurted out of my brain.
“Helen?” My speech was hardly audible, more like a gasp. “What are you doing?”
“I was visiting, Samuel didn’t mention that?” Her smile was piercing and icy. With a purposeful clink, she set down the cup and folded her hands in her lap, resembling a monarch seated on a throne. “How unusual for him to overlook such a crucial detail.”
As if on cue, pallid and twitchy, Sam emerged from the kitchen. His face was plastered with guilt. He was unable to look me in the eye.
“Cindy! You’re at home now. With a stammer, his voice broke. He didn’t make an effort to clarify or come running to me to apologize. Rather, he remained motionless, varying his weight from foot to foot, resembling a deer illuminated by headlights.
“Clearly,” I was able to say. My voice was dangerously calm, no longer a whisper. My patience was waning as I felt the weight of the world bearing down on me. “Sam, you didn’t think this was important enough to mention?”
He parted his lips, but nothing came out. Between us, the quiet was oppressive and dense.
Helen’s appearance was an unsaid assertion of triumph, and her smugness was intolerable. She had a way of making me feel insignificant, as if I could never measure up to her beloved son, no matter how hard I tried.
And now here she was, entrenched in our house and our lives, as though she had been waiting her entire life for her chance to take command.
That evening, trying to make sense of the maelstrom of emotions churning inside of me, I lay wide awake in the guest room (Helen had taken over our bedroom, of course) staring at the ceiling.
I wanted to yell, to go up to Sam and ask him to explain. Rather, I lay still, my thoughts descending further into the shadowy recesses of my consciousness.
Eventually, the faint hum of voices from the kitchen pierced through my mental fog. I sat up and cautiously made my way toward the door, making sure not to squeak. I strained to listen, pressing my ear to the cool wood while my heart raced.
“—can’t believe she lets those kids run wild,” Helen said in a contemptuous tone. “No organization, no discipline. And do you see how well she maintains her house? It’s disorganized. Back then—
“Please, Mom—” Sam was the next to speak, her voice soft and beseeching but lacking power. He had a child’s voice when he spoke.
Helen yelled, “Don’t ‘Mom, please’ me, Samuel.” You were not raised like this by me. You are not worthy of that woman. It never was. And those kids, they were so rowdy and noisy. At that age, nothing like you were. I’m not sure how you’re going to handle any of them.
Blood splattered in my ears. I waited for Sam to respond, to stand up for me, to counter her nasty remarks. It felt like an eternity before he responded.
“Yes, Mom, I understand. You’re accurate.
And then something inside of me snapped.
There was no grand, spectacular split. There were no tears or fury. Merely a silent, dreadful severing of the final thin line securing my marriage and life with Sam. Clarity was in that breaking. icy, acute clarity.
Had I not known from the beginning? I knew deep down that Sam would always pick his mother above me. However, learning of it felt like the last straw. Not only was he weak, but he was also involved. I was finished.
The following morning, I gave Sam a light and sweet kiss on the cheek. I chirped, “I think I’ll extend our hotel stay.” “The kids are having a great time.”
All I needed was Helen’s smug smirk to get me going.
I chose not to return to the motel. I went straight to a lawyer’s office instead. Next, a bank. Three days later, Sam and Helen had returned from their shopping trip, and the moving truck was gone.
Sam’s clothes, his Xbox, and a note that said, “You’re free to live with your mother now,” were the only items left in the vacant house. I’m gone, as are the kids. Don’t attempt to locate us.
Two weeks later, his voice trembling with desperation, he called.
“Cindy, I kicked her out.” I truly apologize. Please return home. I’ll improve and become better.
He nearly convinced me. Almost. But there had always been a chatterbox across the street in Ms. Martinez.
“Your mother-in-law, huh?” When I called to see how my rose bushes were doing, she said. What a lovely woman. Every day, she has been bringing in additional boxes. It appears that she is making a permanent home!
I laughed until my eyes watered and hung up.
I was putting the kids to bed in our new apartment that evening when Alison said, “Mommy, when are we going home?”
I smelled her strawberry shampoo as I smoothed her hair back. “Baby, we’re home. We now call this place home.
“However, what about Daddy?”
“Daddy.” I was careful with my word choice. “Daddy must spend some time living with Grandma Helen.”
From his tablet, Phillip raised his gaze. Alright. Grandmother Helen is cruel.
From babies’ mouths, that is.
I felt lighter than I have in years when I shut their door. Sam might have his mother, her judgment, her power. I had selected both our kids and myself. And for the first time since this entire disaster started, I was positive that I had made the proper decision.
The other woman isn’t always a mistress. For better or worse, she is occasionally the lady who brought up your husband to be exactly the man he is.
And sometimes it’s best to just move on from them both.
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