Darla moved in “for a few weeks” after knee surgery—fifteen months ago. She hated my houseplants, mocked my cooking, and made endless passive-aggressive comments. Mike barely stood up for me, brushing off her behavior as just “how she is.” After a year of trying to keep peace, something inside me snapped when she accused me of neglecting Mike.

I started a quiet rebellion—letting messes slide, canceling her appointments, and sneaking her favorite pink casserole dish into a garage sale. Then I got serious and sent Mike subtle hints about moving out, hoping he’d choose us. One night, after Darla complained again, I told Mike I needed a break—from her, the tension, and pretending. I packed a bag and stayed with my cousin while Darla floundered alone.

Three weeks later, Mike called. “She’s driving me crazy,” he admitted. I told him to come get me, but Darla wouldn’t be there when I returned. She left, furious and accusing me of manipulation. Mike stood firm: “She’s my wife. It’s time you respected that.” When I came home, peace returned, and so did my husband.