Last Sunday, my husband came home from his mother’s and dropped a bombshell: they’d decided I should quit my job and become his mom’s maid.

At first, I played along. I quit—but on my terms. I cleaned her house with forced politeness, all while observing, gathering information, and planning my escape. My mother-in-law relished the control, nitpicking everything. Meanwhile, my husband barely acknowledged me, relieved I’d complied.

Three weeks in, she found out I’d contacted women’s shelters about volunteer work and exploded. “Your place is here,” she snapped. That was the final straw. “My place is wherever I choose it to be,” I shot back. She threw me out, and I walked away—relieved.

At home, Paul defended her. “That’s how families work.”

“No,” I said. “That’s how your family works. I’m done.”

He scoffed. “Where will you go?”

I had my own bank account, my own savings. I stuffed a suitcase, ignoring his stunned silence.

At the top of the stairs, I paused but didn’t look back. “Anywhere but here.” Then I walked out the door, free at last.