The day my mother-in-law called me in a panic asking where the entrance to our new luxury house was, I had to mute the phone so she wouldn’t hear me laugh.Her name was Diane, and for three years she had treated every upgrade in my husband’s life as if it automatically belonged to her. When Marcus got promoted, she hinted about a monthly allowance. When we upgraded our car, she asked for the old one before we had even decided what to do with it. When we told her we were moving, she didn’t congratulate us. She asked how many bedrooms the new place had, then said, “Good. I’ll finally be comfortable.”

Marcus and I exchanged a look at the time, but neither of us pushed back. That was unusual for me, because Diane had spent most of our marriage bulldozing boundaries and calling it family closeness. She had a way of saying outrageous things in a cheerful tone, as if refusing her would make you the rude one. The truth was, she had been testing us for months. She complained about maintaining her own home. She mentioned how lonely she felt. She began referring to our move as “our fresh start.” The more she talked, the clearer her plan became.Then, two weeks before our closing date, she called Marcus and casually announced she had listed her house for sale.He put the call on speaker. “Why would you do that now?”Oh, don’t act surprised,” she said lightly. “It makes no sense for me to stay here while you two rattle around in that giant new place. We’ll save money and be together. It’s perfect.”