After a bumpy marriage, Kelly and Peter decide to part ways. However, Kelly’s ex-mother-in-law, Lorraine, seems unwilling to let go. She resorts to antics like tearing down wallpaper and attempting to take a shower cabin, ultimately facing the consequences of her actions.

My name is Kelly, and I’ve been divorced from Peter, my ex-husband, for about six months now. We were married for a decade, and although our marriage had its issues, it was my life.

That changed when I discovered Peter’s affair.

The discovery was the final straw, leading to a messy divorce. As if that wasn’t enough, dealing with Peter’s mother, Lorraine, became a constant headache during the aftermath.

Lorraine never seemed to approve of me. Even during my marriage to Peter, she always insinuated that I wasn’t up to her standards for her son.

“Kelly, Peter grew up in a particular environment that I provided. I’m just being honest here; you’re not perfect. Peter needs someone that aligns with that upbringing. Perfection is the standard!” she would often say.

After Peter and I split, Lorraine did everything she could to arm Peter with all he could seize from our shared life. Money, property, even pieces of my precious wedding jewelry – if it held value, Lorraine ensured it went to Peter.

I repeatedly reassured myself that peace would follow the divorce and Peter’s move. But that peace was short-lived.

Returning home early one day, overwhelmed by work fatigue and a throbbing headache, I anticipated rest and solace. Instead, I was greeted by an astonishing sight: my shower cabin sitting in the hallway, labeled boldly with “Peter’s Property.” The pit in my stomach grew heavy.

What was happening?

Upon entering my apartment, I was engulfed in dust and torn wallpaper remnants. The walls were partly stripped bare, and strange tearing noises emerged from a distant corner. Following the sounds, I found Lorraine fiercely pulling off wallpaper from my walls.

She mumbled something about ensuring no “traces” of Peter’s handiwork remained.

“What on earth, Lorraine?” I exclaimed, pushing my way into the kitchen, the sole untouched room.

Unfazed, Lorraine looked up at me.

“This is his handiwork,” she stated, maintaining her practiced superiority. “The shower cabin, the wallpaper, he worked on these. They’re his to reclaim, not yours to keep.”

My shock deepened. How could they stoop so low? I was emotionally drained from the divorce, and now this chaos?

I stood helplessly, watching her dismantle my home, her muttered justifications continuing all the while. She deconstructed light fixtures and wallpaper, touching every part of my apartment where Peter may have once placed his hands.

“Lorraine, stop this madness, please. It’s terribly unjust,” I pleaded.

But my words were ignored. She persisted in her destructiveness, pulling wallpaper, yanking at the shower frame. Numb and weary, I settled onto the couch, watching her wreck the apartment.

To my shock, the next day, Lorraine returned. This time, however, she was asking for assistance, not taking things.

“Kelly,” she cried, gripping my arm with unexpected desperation. “Help me. Anything you need – I’ll offer. Just… help Peter.”

Confused, I asked, “Help who? What are you referring to?”

Lorraine was now pleading for my help, a rare sight. “Peter,” she whimpered. “He’s in grave trouble. I’m begging you, please, save him.”

A pang of disbelief hit me. Peter, the man who hurt and betrayed me, now needed my assistance?

A tiny voice inside urged me to help, arguing it was the right thing. But memories surged back – the deceit, the manipulation, the heartbreak.

Yet as I saw Lorraine’s anguish, I softened somewhat. She wasn’t just any bitter woman; she was a mother undone by the choices of her son.

For now, though, I kindly refused to get back into their world.

A week passed until Lorraine visited me again. She had clearly aged and seemed weary. Humbled, she said softly, “Kelly, I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

I served her tea and listened.

“Peter isn’t who I believed,” she admitted, tearfully recounting her regrets. “Years of mothering misguided him. I was wrong.”

Her apologies carried an unexpected sincerity. For a brief moment, the barriers around my heart lessened, and I found myself willing to hear her out.

Months later, I received a handwritten letter from Peter, carrying words of apology rather than excuses.

“Kelly, I’m sorry for everything,” it read. “I’m discovering myself minus the lies. Hoping to find some redemption.”

Reading it felt odd, but also a step towards closure long overdue.

And as I reflect on everything, I wonder what you would have done in my shoes.