My husband insisted that we move closer to his children. Six months later, I realized why he wanted it and what a terrible mistake I had made…

I remember that evening in detail. We were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea, while it drizzled outside. My husband suddenly put down his newspaper, looked at me seriously, and said, “You know, I think it’s time for us to move closer to the kids.” I froze with a cup in my hands. “Why?” — I asked. He smiled softly, almost tenderly: “We’re getting older. They need help with the grandchildren, and we need family nearby. At our age, it’s the right thing to do.”

I didn’t become suspicious right away. We had been together for twenty-three years; I trusted him. His children from his first marriage had long grown up, lived in another city, and visited once a year during holidays. Our relationships were lukewarm — they tolerated me, and I didn’t impose myself on them. That suited everyone.

Our house was my fortress. Small, cozy, with a garden that I had created over ten years. Familiar neighbors, shops nearby, everything was mine. All my life was here: memories, habits, peace. Why change?

But my husband started talking about it every day. Subtly, yet persistently. “The kids need us,” “The grandkids are growing up without a granddad,” “It would be good for you to change the scenery,” “Growing old alone is hard, but it’s safer with family nearby.” He shared stories of acquaintances who moved to be with their children and “live happily.” Showed photos of the grandkids. Sighed looking out the window: “Oh, how much of their childhood I’ve already missed…”

I resisted. I said I was happy here, that starting from scratch at sixty-two was madness. But he didn’t give up. Every evening — a new argument. Every morning — a sad look. I started feeling like a selfish person keeping him away from his children.

After three months, I gave in. I was just tired of arguing.

We sold our house in a month. My husband organized everything himself — the agent, negotiations, viewings. I just agreed with his decisions. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything,” — he kept saying. And I believed him.

We moved into an apartment in a high-rise building ten minutes away from his daughter’s house. The apartment was half the size of our house. The windows faced a construction site. The elevator worked intermittently. I stood in the middle of empty rooms with boxes and thought, “What have I done?”

My husband, on the contrary, seemed to blossom. He immediately ran off somewhere — to the kids, on errands, shopping. I was left to unpack things alone. My favorite curtains didn’t fit the windows. The furniture didn’t fit. I had to throw out half of it.

The first month was a nightmare. I couldn’t find a single store without the navigator. Neighbors looked through me. At night, I lay in bed listening to someone arguing through the wall and cars honking below. I wanted to cry, but held back. I thought, “I’ll get used to it. Adaptation. It’ll get easier soon.”

My husband’s children started visiting often. At first, everything was nice. His daughter would bring pastries, hug me: “How nice that you’re close now!” His son would visit with wine, pat his father on the back: “Finally you’re with us!” They smiled at me, asked how I was, if it was hard to adjust.

Two weeks later, the requests started.

“Can you watch the grandson on Friday? We have a meeting with friends.” I agreed — why not, he’s a grandson. Then again. Then on Saturday, Sunday, for the whole week. The grandson turned out to be a hyperactive eight-year-old who didn’t listen and threw tantrums. I came home exhausted.

“Can you lend us some money until payday? We urgently need it.” I gave — from our savings. The money wasn’t returned. A month later — another request. Then more. I tried to discuss it with my husband, but he brushed it off: “They’ll pay back. We’re helping the family.”

“We’re renovating, can we stay with you for a couple of weeks?” It was his son and his wife. Two weeks turned into a month. They took over the bedroom. I slept on the couch in the kitchen. My husband stayed silent.

Gradually, I started noticing strange things. When the kids came over, they talked to my husband privately, behind closed doors. I heard fragments: “it’s more convenient this way,” “we’ll sort it out later,” “she doesn’t mind, does she?” When I asked what it was about, my husband replied irritably: “Family matters. Not your concern.”

One day, I heard his daughter say to him: “Dad, you did great moving here. Now, everything will be easier.” He replied, “I told you she’d agree. The main thing is to present it properly.”

My heart sank. I pretended I hadn’t heard.

Four months after moving, I understood what had really happened. We sold our house, where I had lived for ten years, which was filled with my memories, my efforts. The money from the sale my husband invested in this new apartment. But when I once asked if a friend from the old city could visit us for the weekend, my husband looked at me strangely and said, “This is MY apartment. I decide who will stay here.”

I froze. “Our apartment,” — I tried to correct him.

“Mine,” — he repeated coldly. — “I bought it with my money, it’s my choice, my decision. You live here because you’re my wife. That is enough.”

— But we sold our house together. I also invested my life, my…

— You agreed to move, — he interrupted. — No one forced you. It’s too late to demand anything now.

At that moment, I realized. The move was planned. He deliberately insisted on selling our house so that I would lose my support, my territory, my place. He moved here not for family warmth but for convenience — so that I was at hand. A free babysitter for the grandkids. A helper for his children. A source of money when needed. And all the while — dependent on him because I no longer have my home, there’s nowhere to return.

His children no longer smiled at me. They looked at me as staff. “Make dinner,” “Clean the room,” “Watch the child all day tomorrow.” My opinion wasn’t asked. My feelings weren’t of interest.

Once, his daughter told me to my face: “You should be grateful that dad allows you to live here. Without him, what would you be doing now? Renting a room somewhere?”

I stayed silent. Because she was right — I really found myself trapped.

I thought about leaving. But where? To a rented apartment on my small pension? To whom? I have no children of my own. Friends remained in the city where I used to live. Here, I know no one. All connections are lost.

I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. I trusted. I agreed to the move without considering the consequences. I sold my house — my only refuge. Moved to a place where I am needed only for use.

My husband completely changed. Or maybe I finally saw his true nature. The person who slept next to me for twenty-three years turned out to be capable of such betrayal. He deliberately deprived me of my independence. Made me defenseless. And all this — under the guise of caring for family.

Now I sit by the window, looking at the construction outside, and think: how easy it is to lose your entire life. Just by agreeing to move. Just by trusting the wrong person.

I became invisible in this house. Convenient. Helpless. And the scariest thing — I allowed it myself.

Have you ever trusted so much that it cost you everything? How did you realize you were being used? And were you able to get out of that trap?

*******

After three months of persuasion, I agreed to move closer to my husband’s children. We sold the house where I had lived for ten years, and I believed it would be better for us to be closer to family. But six months later, I was taking care of someone else’s grandchildren every day, giving away my last money for their “urgent needs,” and when I finally tried to protest, his daughter looked at me with pity and said: “You should be grateful that Dad lets you live here. What would you do without him?“
And in that moment, I finally understood why this move was really needed and what a terrible mistake I had made…
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