I stayed on the couch, listening to my husband and his mother talking in the kitchen. I couldn't hear every word, but I knew they were agreeing with each other. A few minutes later, his mother left. Mark walked into the living room. “You didn't have to walk away like that. You made it weird. She's just my mom.” I looked at him, fighting the urge to explain myself all over again. “You and your mother ganged up on me at our own dinner table,” I said calmly. “You didn't look at me like a partner. You looked at me like an opponent.” “I was just trying to keep the peace.” “By sacrificing mine,” I replied. I walked into our bedroom, packed a small bag, and grabbed my keys. “Where are you going?” he asked, suddenly worried. “To a hotel for the night. I love you, Mark, but I won't stay in a house where my own husband makes me feel like an outsider.” He stood there speechless as I walked out. For the first time in a long time, I stopped worrying about whether he understood my feelings and started respecting them myself.