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.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.
