I thought my marriage was built on solid ground. Scott and I had spent two years dating, getting to know each other inside and out, before tying the knot. During that time, I had formed a bond with his six-year-old son, Ben—a shy but sweet little boy with his father’s blonde hair and a smile that could melt ice.

His mother, Patricia, had seemed friendly enough in those early days. She would chat with me during drop-offs, casually asking about my job as a high school teacher.

“You’re so good with Ben,” she had said once, watching as he eagerly showed me his latest Lego creation. “It’s nice that he has another positive influence in his life.”

It had all seemed so normal back then. So simple.

But that changed after the wedding.

Patricia became distant, barely speaking to me when we crossed paths. And then, out of nowhere, Scott dropped a bombshell on me.

It was a quiet spring Tuesday evening. I was making dinner, watching the rain through the window, while Scott fiddled with a broken cabinet handle.

Then he cleared his throat. That throat-clearing that people do when they’re about to say something they know you won’t like.

“Honey, I think it would be better if you went to your parents’ on weekends,” he said, still focused on the cabinet.

I paused, my knife hovering over the cutting board. “I’m sorry. What? Why?”

He sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Patricia doesn’t want Ben around you anymore. She says it’ll confuse him. If she finds out you’re here when Ben visits, she’ll make things difficult. I just want peace.”

I dropped the knife and turned to him. “I don’t understand. Ben and I get along great. We did a science experiment last weekend, remember? The volcano? He loved it!”

“I know,” Scott said quickly. “It’s ridiculous, but she says now that we’re married, it’s different. She doesn’t want Ben thinking you’re his mother, too.”

“But I am his stepmother,” I countered.

“I know. It’s just… she’s threatening to reduce my time with him. Please, Marilyn. It’s only temporary, until she calms down.”

His words twisted in my stomach. Only temporary.

“So your solution is to kick your wife out of her own house every weekend?”

“Not kick out,” he backpedaled. “Just… take a little break. Visit your parents. They’d love to see you more, right?”

It felt wrong, but I didn’t want to be the reason Scott lost time with his son. So that Friday, I packed my overnight bag and drove to my parents’ house.

Mom answered the door with a frown. “Marilyn? What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting,” I said, forcing a smile.

At breakfast the next morning, she asked me for the truth.

When I explained, she set down her toast, her jaw tightening. “Why are you the one leaving? It’s your house.”

“It’s just temporary,” I lied.

Mom stared at me for a long moment before shaking her head. “Something about this doesn’t feel right.”

I didn’t want to hear it. So I ignored the nagging voice in my head.

But weeks turned into months.

Every Friday, I packed my bags, feeling like a guest in my own home. And according to Scott, Patricia was happy with the arrangement, so we had to keep it up.

“I love you, Marilyn,” he would say, holding my face between his hands. “This won’t last forever.”

I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. But doubt was creeping in, growing louder with every weekend I spent away.

Then, one Friday, as I drove toward my parents’ house, something inside me snapped.

“Are you an idiot?” the voice in my head demanded. “Why are you still doing this? This isn’t normal!”

Before I could second-guess myself, I made a dangerous U-turn and sped back home.

The house was too quiet for a Friday night with a six-year-old.

And then I saw them.

Scott was sitting on the couch, his arm casually draped over Patricia’s shoulder.

She was wearing my pajamas.

The expensive silk ones I had just bought.

“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.

Scott jumped up so fast that he hit his knee on the coffee table. “Marilyn! You’re… you’re supposed to be at your parents’.”

I wasn’t looking at him. My eyes were locked on Patricia, who was smirking as she ran her hand down the silk of my pajama top.

“Well, well,” she mused. “Looks like someone went off-script.”

“Where’s Ben?” I asked, my voice cold.

“At my mother’s,” Patricia replied smoothly. “Didn’t Scott tell you? He’s always at my mother’s on Fridays. They have a special movie night.”

The pieces snapped together in an instant.

“This was never about Ben, was it?”

Patricia laughed. “Smart girl. I told Scott that if he wanted another chance with me, I needed weekends to see if we could fix things. Sending you away was his idea, though.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Interesting, because Scott told me something very different.”

I pulled out my phone and hit play on a recording.

Scott’s own voice filled the room: “Patricia is just being her typical self. Selfish and petty. I’m only doing this until Ben’s a bit older and can understand things better. Things will go back to normal soon, and then we can think about having our own children. You’re the love of my life.”

Patricia’s smirk vanished.

Then she hurled a slipper at Scott. “You lying piece of garbage!”

Scott ducked, and the slipper shattered an ugly porcelain figurine. I didn’t care—it was a hideous thing his mother had given me.

Patricia grabbed her purse, shoving past me on her way out.

“Keep the pajamas,” I called after her. “I know you can’t afford them!”

She froze, but kept walking.

Scott turned to me, eyes pleading. “Marilyn, I—”

I ignored him, marched upstairs, and started throwing his clothes out the window.

“What are you doing?!” he yelled.

“If you come one step closer, I will scream, and you know the neighbors will call the cops.”

One by one, his expensive suits, golf clubs, and watches hit the grass below.

“Now pick up your junk and get out of my life,” I said.

“Please,” he begged. “I was just trying to make everyone happy.”

“I don’t want to hear another word except through lawyers,” I said, slamming the door in his face.

I leaned back against it, exhaling for the first time in months.

A minute later, my phone vibrated with a text from Mom.

“You never made it here. Everything okay?”

I smiled, typing back:

“Everything’s perfect. No one is ever kicking me out of my house again.”