During the wedding night, I was exhausted after a long day entertaining my guests, so I retired to my room hoping to hug my husband and sleep.ofυпdameпte.
However, as soon as I finished removing my makeup, the door opened:
“Mom is very drunk, let her lie down for a while, there’s too much noise downstairs.”
My mother-in-law, a controlling and sometimes strict woman, staggered, hugging a pillow, her breath reeking of alcohol, her shirt low-cut and her face red.
While I was about to help her get to the living room, my husband stopped me:
Let Mom stay here, it’s just a wedding. A wedding. The wedding.
Bitterly I carried the pillow to the sofa, without daring to react for fear that he would label me a “newly married and ill-mannered wife”.
I tossed and turned in bed all night, unable to sleep. It was almost morning when I finally fell asleep.
When I woke up, it was almost six o’clock. I went upstairs with the intention of waking my husband and going downstairs to greet my maternal relatives.
I gently pushed the door to open it… and I froze.
My husband was lying on his back. My mother-in-law was very close to him, in the same bed that I had abandoned.
I approached with the intention of waking him. But as I scanned the sheet with my eyes, I suddenly stopped.
On the pure white sheet… there was a reddish-brown stain, slightly extended like dried blood.
I touched it: it was dry, but still damp at the edge. And the smell… it wasn’t like alcohol.
I was stunned. My whole body was cold.
“Are you awake?” – my mother-in-law jumped, startled me quickly, pulled the blanket to cover the wound, her smile shining and suspiciously alert – “Last night I was so tired that I slept soundly!”
I looked at my husband. He was still pretending to sleep; his breathing was strange.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t turn towards me.
I didn’t know what had happened in my bed on my first night as a wife, but… it wasn’t normal. For nothing.
That night, I snuck into the laundry room. I found the old sheets.
Eп la bolsa de lavaпdería eпscoпtré up par de bragas de eпcaje rojas (пo eraп mías, пo podíaп ser mías).
And from that moment on, the marriage that had just begun… was officially broken.
My name is Claire Miller, I am 26 years old, recently married to Etha Miller, a young, kind and calm doctor and the only person who makes me believe that true happiness exists.
The wedding was held on the California coast, everything was perfect down to the last detail.
However, the wedding night, the night that was supposed to be the beginning of eternal love, became the first nightmare of my life.
Just as I finished removing my makeup and was about to rest with my husband, Etha’s mother, Margaret, suddenly opened the door and entered.
She was unsteady, she smelled of alcohol, but her eyes were completely clear.
—Claire, it’s too noisy downstairs—she said in a sweet but cold voice.
Let me rest here tonight. Just for a little while.
I looked at Ethaп clumsily. He hesitated for a moment and then whispered:
—Mom’s just a little drunk. Let her stay a while, honey.
I didn’t want to cause problems on my first night as a bride.
I nodded and carried the pillows to the sofa downstairs.
But as I was leaving, I glimpsed Margaret’s gaze upon her son: not the gaze of a drunken mother, but something more: possessiveness and fear of losing control.
The next morning, I went back to the room to call Etha for breakfast.
The door was ajar.
Empυjé sυavemeпte…
The room was empty.
The sheets were wrinkled, the smell of perfume was strong and on the nightstand there was an old photograph: a picture of Etha at eight years old, sitting on his mother’s lap, with his father standing behind him but with half of his face cut off.
I picked up the photo. On the back there was a handwritten note:
“We don’t need anyone else.”
At that moment, Margaret appeared in the doorway, her smile soft but her eyes cold:
Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well on the sofa?
I smiled awkwardly, but my heart was beating strongly.
In the morning light, she didn’t seem drunk at all; she was completely sober, almost… observing my reaction.
Coп el paso de los días me fЅi daпdo cЅeпsta poco a poco de que хe algo пo iba bieп.
Margaret was always by her son’s side, everywhere and at all times.
While I was preparing breakfast, she tasted it first. When I touched my husband’s hand, she interrupted me with an absurd excuse.
Every night, she would call our door, under the pretext of “giving you good nights”.
Siп embargo, susЅs ojos пo estabaп pυestos eп mí, estabaп eп Ethaп, coп хпa mirada qυe era sido a sido a sido a seпtil y poderosa.
“My son has always needed me,” he said once when we were alone.
It’s fragile. Don’t try to replace it.
I realized: this was not normal material love.
But it was possessiveness disguised as love, and Etha, the husband she loved, was being frightened by her.
One night I woke up to the sound of a soft bell in the attic.
I approached and opened the door to the room that had been locked since I moved in.
Under the yellow light, I saw old photos pasted all over the wall: photographs of Etha from infancy to adulthood, most of them alone or with her mother.
There was a diary on the table.
The first page said:
After the accident, it was just you and me left. Your father died, but he blamed your mother.
“From then on I swore that I would never let anyone take you away from me.”
I shuddered.
The next page contained scribbled, erased, and repeated words:
She can’t take it. Nobody can.
And below was my wedding photo, with my face smashed.
I took the diary to Etha so that he could see it.
He kept silent for a long time and then said:
When I was 10 years old, my father died in an accident. The police suspected my mother caused it, but there was not enough evidence.
She lost all faith, and since then I have stayed by her side.
“Anyone who approached me – friends, girlfriends – disappeared.”
It attracted me.
Do you think your mother is hiding something?
He agreed:
“I always felt… that my father’s death was not an accident.”
One night I decided to express it.
When Etha left, I looked for Margaret in the studio.
—You already have to control it —I said with a trembling voice.
“You saved him from the world, but you also killed him with fear.”
You don’t understand. The world took everything from me. I only kept what I had left!
—But you’re killing your son —I replied.
She approached me with a cold voice:
If you truly love him, then leave him. Because one day, you too will disappear, like his father, like all the others.
The following morning, Etha and I got ready to leave the house.
But as I left, the maid handed me an envelope.
Inside was a letter, with handwriting that seemed familiar:
Claire, please forgive me.
The accident of that time… I did not cause it.
But I let him die, because I thought he wanted to take you far away.
I just wanted to keep you safe, but now I know that safety is not prison.
“Let my son go free.”
Etha finished reading, if words.
From afar, Margaret stood next to the window, her eyes moist, but calmer than usual.
A month later, we moved to another city. Etha began therapy, learning to free himself from the invisible dependency that had accompanied him throughout his life.
“Love doesn’t always kill,” I wrote in my diary.
“But possession in the name of love… yes, it can.”
There are mothers who love their children so much that their love turns into chains.
There are past pains that make people believe that control is the only way to protect themselves.
But true love, whether from a mother or a husband, only exists when we dare to let go so that the person we love can be free.