Part 3The Day My Husband Moved His Ex Into Our New Home

Ryan’s mom stared at me with utter disdain, her voice dripping with mockery.

“Who are you calling a mistress? Watch your mouth! If we’re going by who came first, you’re the other woman!”

She crossed her arms smugly and continued, “Look at all those casino tycoons with four or five wives. My son’s rich now—what’s so wrong with him taking care of another woman? Michelle’s prettier and better suited to represent the family in public anyway. Why don’t you just stay home, do the chores, and serve us?”

Her audacity left me speechless for a moment, then I laughed.

“All this over $5 million? You’re comparing yourselves to billionaires? What are you even bringing to the table—your half-baked ideas and your underdeveloped brain?”

I laughed louder than I should have, but I didn’t care.

“Ah, yes, you’re ugly, but at least you’ve got delusions of grandeur!”

That was all it took for Ryan’s mom to lose it. She jabbed her finger in my face, her voice shrill and furious.

“How dare you talk to me like that? No manners at all! You’ve been in this new house for weeks, and you still don’t know how to cook! You have no respect for the family. My son must have been cursed in his past life to end up with someone like you!”

Ryan, of course, silently took her side, stepping closer to her with a cold glare aimed at me.

Like mother, like son. The same rotten attitude.

I crossed my arms, my gaze icy as I stood my ground.

“Didn’t your new bride promise to handle all the housework? Let her do it!”

Michelle must have overheard me, because she immediately appeared in the doorway, tears welling up in her eyes. She let out a pitiful sob and bolted for the kitchen, as if I’d just shattered her fragile world.

Seeing this, Ryan instantly panicked.

“Can’t you all just stop? I only let Michelle stay here temporarily to help her out! Emily, why do you have to act so jealous and petty? You’re the one I married, and we even have a child together! Do you really think I’d ever go back to her?”

He paused, then added with a sneer, “If I couldn’t let her go, do you really think you’d be the one having my kid?”

His words hit me like a slap in the face. My chest tightened, and I had to fight the sting of tears.

“Fine,” I said, my voice trembling but firm. “Let her settle in as much as she wants. I’m leaving.”

Ryan’s mom’s face twisted with fury.

“You ungrateful brat! Michelle just moved in yesterday, and her son’s already calling me grandma. She even massaged my legs and shoulders to show her respect. And look at your daughter—what a mute little thing! She can’t even speak properly!”

Her words nearly pushed me over the edge.

My daughter was not mute.

When she was little, Ryan’s mom had taken her out shopping and lost her. I searched for an entire day and night before finally finding her curled up, unconscious, in a filthy dumpster.

The police later reviewed the security footage and discovered that my daughter had cleverly hidden there to escape a trafficker who had been trying to snatch her.

The trauma left her unable to speak for months.

Ryan’s mom had been wracked with guilt back then, spoiling my daughter endlessly to make up for what had happened. She even tore into the neighbor’s kid once for making a silly face at her.

But now? Now she was willing to turn on us the moment some “new grandson” came along.

I looked at Ryan and his mother, both radiating open disdain for me, and I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.

“Sure, sure,” I said. “Anyone who wants to play the doting grandparent or obedient child can go ahead. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

Ryan, sensing that I was softening, tried a different approach. His voice dropped, sounding almost reasonable now.

“Emily, think about this. If you take our daughter and go back to your parents’ house, people are going to start talking. They’ll say I’m abusive or cheating on you. Is that what you want? For your husband’s reputation to be ruined? Does that make you happy?”

I stared at him, a cold smile curling at the edges of my lips.

“Cheating? Ryan, weren’t you already doing that? Why pretend otherwise?”

But I didn’t say it out loud. I knew his game too well.

Every time I called Michelle what she really was—a mistress—Ryan and his mother would suddenly act like paragons of virtue, scolding me for being “petty” and “unreasonable.”

Ryan sighed, pulling out his phone. A moment later, he transferred $10,000 into my account, his tone softening as he handed me his “apology.”

“I shouldn’t have said those things earlier,” he said. “I got carried away. But isn’t this what you wanted? Some extra spending money? There, you’ve got it now. Be satisfied and don’t push your luck.”

He frowned and added, “And tone down your jealousy, Emily. Next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

Ah, the classic Ryan move: insult me, then throw some money at me and expect everything to be fine.

This was how he dealt with every argument—cut me down, then act like the bigger person once he’d tossed me a small bribe.

For years, I let it slide. I told myself it wasn’t worth fighting over.

But after we got married and had a child, his behavior only got worse, his disrespect more blatant.

Now? Now I realized I should’ve stood my ground the first time he crossed the line.

Because people like Ryan don’t change—they just keep testing how much you’re willing to tolerate.

And I was finally done tolerating him.