The music was soft, guests were chatting happily, the waiters were carrying plates back and forth — everything seemed perfect. My mother-in-law sat across from me with that eternal superior little smile of hers, as though the celebration was actually hers, not mine. She had always behaved as if my home wasn’t truly mine — as if a real woman must “share,” especially with her husband and his mother. But I never imagined she would go so far.

When I stood up to take a photo with my friends, she leaned toward my husband and whispered:
“While everyone’s here, go and change the locks at her apartment. I’ll handle the rest later.”

I only caught the last part: “…the locks at her apartment.”
A sharp sting ran through my chest, but I refused to start a scandal during my own birthday.

My husband stood up as if it were the most ordinary request in the world and quietly left. Twenty minutes passed — nothing. Then an hour — people began asking where he was. My mother-in-law pretended to be concerned, but her eyes sparkled with triumph, as though she were already savoring her little victory.

Then the door flew open. My husband walked in — pale as chalk, hands shaking, his footsteps uneven.

“What happened?” I asked.

He swallowed hard and croaked:
“Mom… there…”