I could barely stand, and I begged my mother to let me rest—but she grabbed my hair and dragged me up.

She shouted at me to stop complaining and leave. My father turned his head away with quiet disgust, and my sister smirked, saying she’d finally have the room to herself…

Until my husband showed up.

And everything shifted.

My name is Natalie Laurent. I’m thirty-one years old. And I was thrown out just twenty-four hours after a cesarean section.

Not from my own home.
But from my parents’ apartment in Saint-Denis, where I was staying temporarily because the place I share with my husband, Ethan Brooks, was still under repair after a major leak had wrecked our bedroom.

Ethan had stepped out to pick up antibiotics, bandages, and everything the hospital prescribed.

I was resting in my old room, my daughter Ava asleep beside me, moving carefully because every step tugged painfully at my stitches.

Then my mother, Diane, got a phone call. The moment she hung up, she walked in with that familiar cold expression she always had when it came to my sister.

“Your sister’s coming this afternoon with her baby,” she said flatly. “She needs this room more than you do.”

I honestly thought she was joking.

My sister Lauren, two years younger than me, had always been the favorite. Still, I didn’t believe even my mother could say something like that to someone who had just gone through surgery.

“Mom, I can barely stand,” I whispered. “At least let me rest until Ethan gets back. Then we can figure something out.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“You’re moving just fine. Start packing.”

My father, Victor, stood in the doorway, avoiding my eyes.

When I tried to stand with Ava in my arms and the pain nearly doubled me over, I murmured that it was cruel.

That’s when my mother snapped.

She stormed over, grabbed my hair, and yanked me toward the edge of the bed.

“Stop whining!” she screamed. “Pack your things and get out.”

Pain shot through my body as my incision burned.

My father sighed, annoyed.

“Get her out,” he muttered. “She’s making a scene.”

Ten minutes later, Lauren walked in with her stroller and bags, wearing that same smug half-smile.

She looked at my swollen face, my stained nightgown, my half-packed suitcase by the door.

“Finally,” she said. “I’ll have the room without your drama.”