“I Didn’t Invite You,” My Daughter-in-Law Said Calmly – In the House I Built and At the Table I Paid For.

A House of One’s Own Again

Useful. That word just hung in the air.

Useful. I moved away from the living room.

I went back to the kitchen. I finished washing the blouse and I hung it up to dry.

I started chopping the vegetables for the soup. My hands were shaking.

The knife was slipping. I had to stop, breathe, and tell myself that nothing was wrong, that everything was fine.

But it wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.

Khloe’s parents stayed for the full two weeks. And in those two weeks, I ceased to exist as a person.

I became a ghost, a shadow that cooked, cleaned, and washed, but had no voice, had no opinion, had no place at the table. I slept in the laundry room on that old mattress on the concrete floor.

The smell of detergent gave me a headache. The noise from the pipes wouldn’t let me sleep.

I would wake up at 5:00 in the morning because someone flushed the toilet and the water rushed through the pipes right next to my head. But I didn’t complain because if I complained, if I said anything, they would surely tell me I was being dramatic.

They would say that I was exaggerating, that I was playing the victim. One night I couldn’t sleep.

It was 2:00 in the morning. The mattress was uncomfortable and the room was cold.

I got up and I went to the kitchen. I made myself some tea.

I sat by the window looking at Sharon’s house. Her lights were off.

She was sleeping peacefully in her bed, in her house, with no one to make her feel invisible. I drank my tea slowly.

The hot liquid comforted me. It was the only thing that made me feel something close to peace.

I heard footsteps. I turned around.

It was Dan. He was in his pajamas, looking sleepy.

“What are you doing up?”

he asked.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He poured himself a glass of water and he sat down across from me.

“Mom, I need to talk to you,”

he said.

His tone was serious.

“Chloe and I have been thinking. This living altogether, it’s getting complicated. There are too many people in the house, too much going on, and you look tired, stressed.”

“Maybe it would be better if you found a quieter place, a small apartment just for you, where you can be at peace.”

I looked at him, not understanding.

“Are you asking me to leave my house?”

I asked.

“It’s not that, Mom. Don’t look at it that way. We just think you might be better off in your own place where you don’t have to be taking care of us, where you can rest.”

“You’ve worked hard your whole life. You deserve some peace. We would help you with the rent. We’d give you something every month. We’re not going to abandon you.”

“But here, with so many people, with so many responsibilities, you’re getting worn out.”

I left my cup on the table. My hands were shaking so much I was afraid I’d drop it.

“This is my house, Dan,”

I said.

“I bought it. I paid for it. I built it up when no one helped me. After your father died when everyone said I wouldn’t make it alone. This house is mine.”

“I know, Mom, and nobody is saying otherwise. But things have changed. There are more of us now and the house feels small. Chloe needs space. Her parents visit often.”

“We’re going to have visitors more frequently. And you can’t keep sleeping in the laundry room. That’s not fair to you.”

“That’s why we think the best thing would be for you to have your own place. A place where you can be happy, where you don’t have to be doing things for everyone else all the time.”

I fell silent looking at him, searching for any sign that he was joking, that this was a nightmare and I was going to wake up. But it wasn’t a nightmare; it was real.

My son was asking me to leave my own home.

“I’m not leaving,”

I said finally.

“This is my house and I’m staying.”

“Then Mom, don’t be stubborn. Think about it. Really think about it. What future do you have here?”

“Are you going to keep cooking and cleaning for everyone? Are you going to keep sleeping in a laundry room? Are you going to keep being invisible? Because that’s what you are now—invisible.”

“And it’s nobody’s fault. It’s just that the dynamics changed. Life changed. And you have to adapt or you’re going to keep suffering.”

I stood up. I couldn’t listen anymore.

“I’m going to bed,”

I said.

“Mom, please just think about it.”

I didn’t answer. I walked to the laundry room.

I closed the door, I lay down on the old mattress, and I cried. The next few days were the darkest of my life.

I woke up every morning not knowing why. I cooked without enthusiasm.

I cleaned on autopilot. I did everything like a robot, without thinking, without feeling.

Dan and Chloe started to pressure me more. They left brochures for rental apartments on the kitchen table.

They talked loudly about how nice it would be for me to have my own space, how quiet, how comfortable, as if they were doing me a favor. One afternoon I was washing dishes when I heard the door.

It was Sharon. I hadn’t seen her in weeks.

Chloe had made it clear that visitors had to call first, that people couldn’t just show up like that. But Sharon knocked on the door and walked in just like she always had.

“Eleanor!”

she called from the entryway.

I came out of the kitchen. My apron was wet and my hands were red from scrubbing.

“Sharon,”

I said, and seeing her, I felt something inside me break.

The tears started streaming out and I couldn’t stop them. Sharon came closer and she hugged me, and I collapsed in her arms like a child.

“What is going on here?”

she asked me.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks. I’ve knocked several times and no one answered. I called you and you didn’t pick up. I was worried.”

I couldn’t speak. I just cried.

Sharon led me to the kitchen and she sat me down. She sat across from me.

“Tell me everything,”

she said.