My husband always treated his mother like a queen and made sure I felt like the runner-up.
The day he told her she deserved the front seat of our car more than I did, something in me finally snapped.
Before marriage, Harry seemed independent. After the wedding, everything revolved around his mother, Stephanie. He answered her calls mid-conversation, canceled our plans for her errands, and even left our anniversary dinner because she felt “lonely.”
When my grandmother died and left me some money, Harry suggested I buy a car. I didn’t drive, but he promised he would. I paid for it in full.
Within weeks, the car became his mother’s personal taxi. I was back on public transportation, standing in the rain, while Harry drove my car with Stephanie riding shotgun.
Then came the moment that broke me.
As we walked to the car one day, Harry stopped me from getting in the front seat and said,
“This isn’t for you. Mom sits up front. She’s the number one woman in my life.”
I didn’t cry. I made a plan.
I secretly took driving lessons. Passed my test. Got my license. And waited.
On my birthday, I asked Harry and his mother to grab a “surprise” from the garage. I took the keys, got in the driver’s seat, and drove away.
The surprise? Divorce papers.
For the first time, I was in the front seat of my own life.
And I’m never giving it up again.
