When Nathan and I married, I agreed to live with his parents “temporarily” to save for a house. That “temporary” stretched into a year of cleaning, cooking, and enduring his father’s constant criticism — all while Nathan stayed silent.

The breaking point came when his father spilled my mop bucket, then exploded, snarling, “Did you forget whose house you’re living in?” Humiliated, I gave Nathan an ultimatum: we move out in a week, or I leave.

He suddenly “remembered” his uncle’s empty cottage, and we were gone within days. Years later, we have our own home, a baby on the way, and a rule in our marriage: I will never again live under a roof where I’m disrespected.