At 6 a.m., my mother-in-law’s screams echoed through the entire building. “You changed the locks on our apartment?!” My husband burst in, pointing at my face and yelling, “Give me the keys. Now.” I couldn’t help but laugh. That apartment had never been theirs – not a single dollar of it. I calmly slid a white envelope across the table. “You should read this first.” What happened next left their world completely collapsed.

“Ryan said you could take my office?” I repeated, the words tasting like ash.

“It’s my son’s house,” Karen replied, her tone breezy, as if stating a meteorological fact. “He wants his mother to be comfortable. And honestly, dear, do you really need a home office? You treat this place like a hotel as it is.”

I looked at the movers. They had paused, the desk hovering mid-air, sensing the sudden drop in barometric pressure.

“Put the desk down,” I commanded. My voice wasn’t loud, but it had the steel edge I used in boardrooms when a client tried to lie about assets.

“Keep moving!” Karen barked at them.

The front door chimed. Footsteps—heavy, confident—approached.

Ryan walked in. He was wearing his gym gear, smelling of sweat and the fifty-dollar-an-ounce musk cologne I bought him for Christmas. He dropped his gym bag on the floor, ignoring the coat rack three feet away.

“What’s with the standoff?” he asked, wiping his forehead with a towel.

“Ryan,” I said, pointing a trembling finger at the study. “Your mother is evicting my desk.”

Ryan looked at the scene, then at me. He sighed, the long, performative sigh of a martyr. “Babe, don’t start. Not tonight.”

“Start?” I stepped closer to him. “You gave away my workspace without asking me?”

“Mom mentioned she needed space for her quilting,” Ryan said, shrugging. “You know how she gets when she’s bored. And let’s be real, El—you work too much. Maybe if you didn’t have an office here, you’d actually come sit on the couch with your husband.”

“So this is for my own good?” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“It’s a compromise,” Ryan said, flashing that boyish, charming smile that used to make my knees weak. Now, it just looked like a predator baring its teeth. “It’s my house too, Elena. I should have a say in how we use the rooms.”

It’s my house too.

There it was. The mantra. The shield. The sword.

I looked at him—really looked at him. I saw the arrogance in his jawline. I saw the dismissal in his eyes. He truly believed it. He believed that his presence as “The Man” superseded the name on the mortgage, the name on the checks, and the name on the deed.

I realized then that arguing was pointless. You cannot reason with a parasite; you can only remove it.

“Fine,” I said softly.

Ryan blinked, surprised by my capitulation. “See? Was that so hard? Be a good hostess, El. Make Mom some tea.”

Continue READING