Member-only story
My Marriage Cost Me My Home
I’m homeless, yet happily married.
Home is where I feel safest. Sleepovers with friends and exquisite vacations are great, but home is where I’m openly vulnerable and flawed, yet still loved and cherished. My family always made that crystal clear.
I come from a culture where marriages are arranged, and women get the raw end of the deal — they move in with their husbands and in-laws.
When I married, my aunt called my husband’s huge family, my home. “This is your new home,” she said. I believed her, naively. But no matter how hard I tried I didn’t feel at home there.
It’s not because of any in-laws’ drama — it’s the little things like the type of cups and plates they use, never sleeping in on Sundays, and the sarcastic tone of their regular conversations.
At first, those differences seemed insignificant, but as time passed, they became unignorable, like a neighbor’s loud, unpleasant music.
Even if I could ignore these differences, living under the in-laws’ roof felt like being perpetually under a spotlight. I was always conscious of what I said or did, terrified of doing something wrong. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched and silently judged.
