The first six months of our marriage were spent caring for his dying mother. Everything we did was to make her last days comfortable or to prepare for her death.
My ex-husband's inheritance was all spent to house us — me, his mother, his sister and the soon-to-be baby.
We didn't want to buy a house, but we needed a comfortable place for his mother to spend her final days. So we overextended ourselves and purchased our first home together, a small townhouse in a desert town outside of San Diego. An almost-paradise.
His mother spent her days being sick and watching soap operas, while his sister became their mother's sidekick and chauffeur. Due to the seriousness of my mother-in-law's condition, the Marine Corps found it in their hearts to temporarily transfer my ex-husband from his East Coast barracks to the base closest to where his mother lived and was now receiving cancer treatment.
Southern California is unaffordable, so the place we did manage to buy was a commute to everything.
While my sister-in-law spent her days watching TV and enjoying the dry, sunny weather by getting a stellar tan, my ex-husband and I were commuting over an hour one-way each day to the jobs that afforded us the lifestyle my mother-in-law and sister had grown comfortable in.
As I became more pregnant, the commute seemed impossible. And the darker my sister-in-law's tan became, the more resentment I grew. All while she was growing her own resentments.
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