“Get out!” Marta shouted again, swiping my favorite vase off the table. It crashed against the floor and shattered.

“I said leave!”

I stood frozen in the kitchen, a mug of coffee still in my hand. The hot liquid spilled over my fingers, but I barely noticed. The sting in my chest was far worse.

“Marta… do you even realize what you’re saying?” My voice shook despite my effort to stay calm. “This apartment belongs to me.”

“To you?” She burst into harsh laughter. “If it weren’t for my son, you’d still be living in some damp rented room! Thomas earned everything. Not you. You’ve never contributed a thing!”

I set the cup down slowly. Inside me, something was boiling.

“Thomas?” I said quietly. “He hasn’t paid a single cent. My parents bought this place before the wedding. I can show you the paperwork if you want.”

Her face flushed instantly.

“You’re lying!” she yelled. “Thomas told me he bought it! You’re just a guest here. Pack your bags before I call the police!”

That was the moment everything snapped into focus. My husband had been lying for years—and I was the silent prop in his story.

Thomas would be home in an hour. I decided not to argue further. Let her believe the lie a little longer.

I went to the bedroom, locked the door, and called him.

“Hi,” I said calmly. “Your mother just broke a vase and is throwing me out. She says the apartment is yours. Care to explain?”