My MIL burst through the lock, screaming: “Get your filthy hands off my son!” She ripped the blanket off our bodies at 2 AM without blinking.
I’m Rachel. Twenty-nine. The man in this bed is my husband, Jake. The woman who ripped the covers off us tonight is his mother, Diane.
When we bought this house, she covered the down payment.
So in her eyes, I’m not the lady of this house. I’m just some outsider living under a roof she bought.
She didn’t give me time to get dressed. She snapped on the bedside lamp, grabbed Jake by the wrist, and started dragging him out of bed.
With her other hand she grabbed his sleep pants off the foot of the bed and shoved them into his chest.
“Get up. Mama’s taking you home.”
“Mom!” Jake’s voice was thick and confused. “What are you doing here at 2 AM?”
“I’m taking you home.” Diane glanced at me the way you’d look at a stain that won’t wash out of a sheet.
