My father-in-law has been working with electronics and audio since the last ice age (or at least the mid-1950s). He has always been paranoid regarding magnets and magnetic tools near tape recorders. This all happened in the 1990s, so tapes were still in use for audio recordings.

He called me one evening having a problem with his three-and-a-half-inch diskettes. (Young people: imagine a three-and-a-half-inch 3D-printed save symbol.)

His problem was interesting. He inserted the diskette in the drive, formatted it, tested it, saved a file, verified the file, ejected the diskette, and inserted it again.

And now the diskette was corrupted.

He had tried several times with the same result before calling me.

I tried the same operations — with success. 

Father-In-Law: “What was the problem?”

I said nothing and just pointed at the magnetic paperclip dispenser, which I had moved first. My father-in-law, aware of all magnetic tools, had placed the dispenser next to the computer, right under the drive.

Every time he had removed the diskette, he had erased it.

I come from a pretty well-off family. I grew up with not one but three college funds (one from my parents and one from each set of grandparents), traveled abroad, received a new car at sixteen, etc. Both my parents have multiple Bachelor’s degrees and are very good with money. I understand that I am very privileged and am grateful for the opportunities it has allowed me.

On the flip side, my husband comes from a family where spare money was often spent on smoking and gambling, and they value traveling less. They aren’t poor by any means, and they are very sweet people, but they never saved much for their children’s future or were interested in fostering outside interests of their children. As such, when my husband and I started dating, he was thrown into the deep end of experiencing others’ cultures; lamb sounded “gross” and he had never experienced common activities like camping.

Fortunately, he has adapted well and is much more open to trying new things now. Unfortunately, his brother seems to believe that, by default, he is also entitled to my family’s assets and resources.

It’s Labor Day weekend, and we are at my grandparents’ cabin. My husband and I have paid for all the food for the long weekend, and everything else is essentially “free” thanks to it being off the grid with the exception of the Internet. 

The first thing [Brother-In-Law] does upon arrival is complain about how long and hard the drive was on him, seeming oblivious to the fact that the three-hour drive turned into a three-and-a-half-hour drive because he decided to stop for coffee and fast food. Never mind, he had his sister drive the entire time. Whatever. I ignore him the best I can.

Two days in, after helping with none of the cooking and leaving messes everywhere in his wake, [Brother-In-Law] starts talking about how much fun he is having and how he hopes to own his own cabin one day, but he isn’t sure he wants one “here” (in a small, private, tight-knit community in the middle of two national forests). 

I mostly ignore him when it comes to his fantasy world of owning a cabin. No need to point out that he cannot change a tire or that even getting a plumber out here is $600 to just show up. He certainly doesn’t need to be reminded that he cannot do basic maintenance and that an hour ago, he was shocked when I started picking up kindling for the slash piles. The fact that he made his sister get a “bug” (it was a wood chip) out of his own dog’s mouth is enough of a deterrent.

He then says something that makes me have to resist the urge to kick him. 

Brother-In-Law: “I really like that this is a tradition of us coming up here on Labor Day. It was really fun last year when we did this.”

Me: *Blinking in confusion* “I came up alone last year, my dude. I have videos because it was just me and the dogs. [Husband] was busy then.”

Brother-In-Law: “No. I am pretty sure we were here.”

Sister-In-Law: “Last time we were here, [Dog #1] was just a puppy.”

Me: “And we didn’t have [Dog #2]. Remember?”

Brother-In-Law: “Huh. I could’ve sworn that we were here last year, as well. It must’ve been the year before.”

[Dog #2] is three years old.

Me: “Try five years ago. I remember because [Husband] had just moved down with me and it was the year you graduated.”

Husband: “That’s right.”

[Brother-In-Law] gets a very sour look on his face. The last time we were all up together, he actually tried to break us up. Why? Well, his last girlfriend had dumped his sorry butt, and he was mad his brother was moving in with his long-term girlfriend. Because he is vindictive like that.

Brother-In-Law: “Well, at any rate, this will be a fun tradition. I cannot wait for next year. We can invite [His Poor Roommate]!”

I end up literally biting my tongue so as not to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. My husband says it a bit more kindly than I ever could.

Me: *Thinking* “We are not giving you a free vacation every year, s***head.”

Husband: “Yeah… We will not be doing this every year. It is a lot of work for [My Name].”

After that, [Sister-In-Law] changed the subject, and surprisingly, [Brother-In-Law] was a bit more humble and thanked me for cooking — even if he did absolutely nothing to help, including the one thing I asked them to do when they left (strip the beds), and I still had to pick up after him. And, of course, as he was walking out the door the next day, he complained about the drive home. 

We will be sure to do this in five years, a**hat.

My brother, sister-in-law, and I are playing a game where some of the rules are a bit… open to interpretation.

Me: *Paraphrasing the card I’m playing* “‘This turn, the most argumentative player goes first, and the least argumentative goes last.’ Can we go ahead and agree that that means [Brother], then me, and then [Sister-In-Law]?”

Sister-In-Law: “Sure.”

Brother: “NO!”

He went first. She went last.

Due to my job and frequent visits to the gym, I wear silicone rings so my engagement and wedding rings don’t get banged up. I’ll wear my nicer rings for special occasions but tend to forget to put the silicone rings back on when I take the nicer rings off.

My husband and I are at his parents’ house for dinner. 

Mother-In-Law: “Where’s your wedding ring?”

Me: “Oh, I must have forgotten to put the silicone ones back on.”

Mother-In-Law: “Why wouldn’t you wear your actual rings?”

Me: “I don’t wear my nicer rings to work or the gym, or when showering and sleeping. The guy at the ring store suggested that.”

[Mother-In-Law] responds in a tone that suggests I don’t take my marriage seriously.

Mother-In-Law: “I’ve never taken mine off. [Husband], are you okay with this?” 

Husband: “Mom, no one cares. The ring I’m currently wearing isn’t my actual wedding band. It’s a beater band, and I wear silicone rings to the gym because I don’t want anything to happen to the nicer ring [My Name] got me. I don’t care if she doesn’t wear a ring. Our marriage isn’t solely tied to them. So butt out.”

CONTENT WARNING: Domestic Violence, Alcohol

My husband has a problem with alcohol. Though I’ve urged him to cut back and seek help for the better part of a decade, he insists that he doesn’t have a problem because he isn’t violent, he doesn’t throw up, he never drinks before or at work, he has never gotten a DUI, and most importantly to him, he is just having a good time. I love him so much and don’t want to give up on him. I believe in him, even when other people tell me I should leave.

We are hosting a party one night when things really get out of control. I still don’t know what happened, but I am in the living room playing a game when I hear a commotion in the kitchen. Our family and friends are in the kitchen with him, but they leave when he starts throwing chairs and punching the walls.

A few of us try to calm him down, but that only seems to make him more upset. He grabs a steak knife and tells everyone to leave or he’ll kill us all. Only two of our friends stay, hiding around the corner while I try to talk him down. I convince him to put down the knife; he apologizes and starts crying, reaching out for a hug.

As soon as I am in range, he grabs my arm and slams my wrist on the edge of the kitchen table in an attempt to break it. I jerk at the last second, absorbing most of the hit on my forearm, instead. I run out of the kitchen, past the two remaining friends.

When he comes out after me, they each grab an arm and take him outside. They lock all the doors and windows and call the police. I hide in the bathroom until they arrive and take him away.

After the ER says there is no serious damage to my wrist or arm, my parents and the two friends who stayed take me back to the house to collect all my possessions and move out immediately. Let me tell you, it is quite humbling laying in your childhood bed at the age of thirty-seven with everything you own in black plastic bags at the foot of your bed, knowing the life you’ve built with someone else is over.

He calls me the next afternoon to tell me we are getting a divorce. I tell him I will file as soon as the office opens the next day. He insists he didn’t do any of the things the police said he did, saying he wasn’t that drunk and he remembers everything. According to his story, he had a drink or two, and I started “acting like a f****** b****,” and then I locked him out of the house and called the police. He doesn’t remember the two friends being there, and he denies everything that happened, calls me a few names people don’t usually call their spouses, tells me I will never hear from him again, and hangs up.

True to his word, the only time I’ve heard anything from him was through our lawyers while we worked out our divorce terms. We didn’t have children or pets, so I gave him everything that wasn’t solely in my name. Maybe I should have fought for a few things, but I just wanted it to be over.

A few months after our divorce is finalized, I am at a grocery store. There are several in the area, but this one is the farthest from our old house and my ex’s job. I stop at the bathroom after I finish shopping and, when I come out of the stall, his mother is standing in front of the door, blocking my exit. 

Me: *Sigh* “Excuse me, [Ex-Mother-In-Law].”

Ex-Mother-In-Law: “You’ve ruined [Ex-Husband]’s life.”

Me: “You need to move.”

Ex-Mother-In-Law: “You are a f****** whore.”

I roll my eyes.

Me: “Get out of my way, [Ex-Mother-In-Law].”

She grabs my shoulders, pushing me backward.

Ex-Mother-In-Law: “You had no right!”

I try to shrug her off.

Me: “Get your hands off me.”

Ex-Mother-In-Law: “Or what? You’ll call the police on me, too? You’re a f****** b**** and you deserve to rot in Hell.”

Me: “Get. Off. Me. Now.”

I tried to push her hands off my shoulders, but she shoved me backward. I hit the sink and stumbled. She grabbed my hair and tried to pull me to my feet, scratching at my face. I screamed and started kicking at her.

Security came in and broke us up. She told them that I followed her in the bathroom and attacked her. Security cameras and my bruises and scratches told a different story. I got a restraining order against his entire family and changed my phone number, just to be safe.

I’m in therapy, slowly working through everything that happened. It’s a long road, but I’m moving forward.