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For three years, my mother-in-law Amber Pearce called me useless. But the three-bedroom apartment we lived in—with free utilities, heating, and water—all came from my job at the government agency. The day my transfer orders arrived, she dragged her son to sit across from me. "Voreville? You think my boy's going to some backwater like that? Go by yourself if you want, but don't drag him into your misery!" she shouted. My husband stared at the floor, silent. I counted to three in my mind, but he still wouldn't look up. "Fine. Let's divorce," I said. Amber smirked. My soon-to-be ex-husband exhaled with relief. Seven days later, the property manager showed up at their door personally. He handed Amber the notice. But as she read it once, her legs gave out.