My husband, Harry, treated his mother like a queen—and I was always the runner-up.
Before we married, I told myself his daily calls to Stephanie were sweet. After the wedding, they became priority. If she called during dinner, he answered. If she needed something, our plans disappeared. Even on our anniversary, he left me alone at a restaurant because “Mom feels lonely.”
Then my grandmother died and left me an inheritance. Harry convinced me to use it to buy a car—our car, he said. I paid $20,000 in full. Except it quickly became Stephanie’s personal taxi. Groceries. Salon. Bible study. Doctor visits. Meanwhile, I was back on the bus—late for work, soaked in the rain—while Harry shrugged and said, “I have real errands.”
The breaking point came one Saturday when I walked toward the front seat and Harry stopped me.
“This isn’t for you. Mom’s sitting up front,” he said, smiling at her. “You’re the number one woman in my life.”
I didn’t cry. I planned.
I enrolled in driving school in secret. Twice a week, I learned to merge, park, and take back the power I’d handed him. Three months later, I passed my test on the first try. I kept my license tucked away and waited.
On my birthday, I told them there was a “surprise” in the garage—a white box. They went to look. Harry tossed me the keys without thinking.
I slid into the driver’s seat.
In the box were divorce papers—signed and ready.
I drove away, alone in the front seat for the first time in my marriage, breathing like I’d finally surfaced.
Harry tried to claim the car. My lawyer showed it was bought with my inheritance. Stephanie called everyone to paint me as cruel.
But the truth was simple:
Harry gave his mother the front seat.
So I gave it to her permanently.
And I took my life back.
