Soft music floated through the air, guests were laughing over desserts, waiters were weaving through the tables with plates — everything felt peaceful. My mother-in-law sat across from me with her usual condescending smile, as if the whole event revolved around her instead of me. She had always treated my home as something temporary — as though a “proper wife” should naturally open it to her husband and his mother. But I never thought she would actually try to cross that line.

When I stepped aside to take a photo with some friends, she leaned toward my husband and murmured:
“While everyone’s here, drive over and change the locks on her apartment. I’ll take care of what comes next.”

I only caught the final phrase: “…the locks on her apartment.”
It hit me like a cold needle in the ribs — but I forced myself not to start a public confrontation on my own birthday.

My husband stood up as if he were just following a routine instruction and quietly headed for the exit. Twenty minutes passed — nothing. Then an hour. Guests started asking where he had gone. My mother-in-law pretended to worry, but her eyes gleamed with a quiet, anticipatory delight.

Then the café door swung open.
My husband walked in — pale as a ghost, hands trembling, footsteps unsteady.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

He swallowed and whispered:
“Mom… in the apartment…”