I was breastfeeding our twins when my husband suddenly stood in front of me and coldly said, “Get ready. We’re moving into my mother’s house.” Before I could even understand what he meant, he continued as if it were the most normal arrangement in the world: “My brother and his family will move into your apartment. And you… you’ll sleep in the storage room at my mother’s place.” I went completely still, my hands trembling with anger as I tried not to wake the babies. And then the doorbell rang. My husband stiffened, his face instantly turning pale. He looked toward the entrance, lips shaking, because standing right outside… were my two CEO brothers.
I was sitting on the edge of our bed, breastfeeding our twins, still in my worn-out robe, my hair messy from a sleepless night. Motherhood had humbled me in ways I never expected—but nothing prepared me for the coldness in my husband’s voice when he appeared in front of me and said, without a hint of hesitation,
“Get ready. We’re moving into my mother’s house.”
