I thought I was getting married to my husband, but on the first night I had to give up my  bed to my mother-in-law because she was “drunk” — the next morning I found something stuck on the

 bedsheet that made me speechless. On the wedding night, I was exhausted after a long day of entertaining guests, so I retreated to my room, hoping to hug my husband and sleep soundly.

But as soon as I finished removing my makeup, the door opened: “Mom is too drunk, let her lie down for a bit, it’s too noisy downstairs.” My mother-in-law – a controlling, notoriously strict woman – staggered in, hugging a pillow, her breath reeking of alcohol, her shirt low-cut, her face red. I was about to help her to the living room, but my husband stopped me: “Let Mom lie here, it’s only one night. One night. The wedding night.” I bitterly carried the pillow down to the sofa, not daring to react for fear of being branded “a new wife already rude”. I tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. The shadow of someone upstairs walked back and forth, the sound of wood creaking, then silence. It was almost morning when I finally fell asleep. When I woke up, it was almost 6 o’clock. I went upstairs, intending to wake my husband up and go down to greet my maternal relatives. The door was ajar. I gently pushed it open… and stood frozen. My husband was lying with his back facing out. My mother-in-law was lying very close to him, on the same bed I had given up. I approached, intending to wake him up. But when my eyes swept over the bedsheet, I suddenly stopped. On the pure white sheet… there was a reddish-brown stain, lightly smeared like dried blood. I reached out to touch it — dry but still damp at the edge. And the smell… wasn’t The smell of alcohol. I was stunned. My whole body was cold. “Are you awake?” – my mother-in-law jumped up, surprisingly fast, pulled the blanket to cover the wound, her smile bright and suspiciously alert – “Last night, I was so tired, I slept soundly!” I looked at my husband. He was still pretending to sleep, his breathing was unusual. He didn’t turn to me. He didn’t say a word. I didn’t know what had just happened on my bed on my first night as a wife, but… it wasn’t normal. Not at all. That night, I sneaked into the laundry room. I found the old

 bedsheets. In the laundry bag, I found a pair of red lace panties — not mine, couldn’t be mine. And from that moment, the marriage that had just begun… was officially broken.

I am Claire Miller, 26 years old, just married to Ethan Miller, a young, gentle, calm doctor and the only person who makes me believe that true happiness exists.ing took place on the California coast, everything was perfect down to the last detail.

But the wedding night – the night that was supposed to be the beginning of eternal love – turned into the first nightmare of my life.

Just as I finished removing my makeup and was about to rest with my husband, Ethan’s mother, Margaret, suddenly opened the door and walked in.
She was staggering, smelling of alcohol, but her eyes were completely clear.

“Claire, downstairs is too noisy,” she said, her voice sweet but cold.
“Let me rest here tonight. Just for a while.”

I looked at Ethan awkwardly. He hesitated for a moment and then whispered:
“Mom is just a little drunk. Let her stay for a while, honey.”

I didn’t want to cause trouble on my first night as a bride.

I nodded, taking the pillows to the sofa downstairs.

But as I left, I caught a glimpse of Margaret’s gaze on her son—not the look of a drunken mother, but something else: possessiveness, and fear of losing control.

The next morning, I returned to the room to call Ethan down for breakfast.

The door was only ajar.

I pushed gently…

The room was empty.

The sheets were rumpled, the smell of perfume was strong, and on the nightstand was an old photograph—a picture of Ethan at age eight, sitting on his mother’s lap, his father standing behind him but with half his face cut off.

I picked up the photo. On the back was a handwritten note:

“We don’t need anyone else.”

Just then, Margaret appeared in the doorway, her smile gentle but her eyes cold:

“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well on the couch?”

I smiled awkwardly, but my heart was pounding.

In the morning light, she didn’t look drunk at all – completely sober, almost… watching my reaction

In the days that followed, I gradually realized something was wrong.

Margaret was always by her son’s side – everywhere, all the time.

When I cooked breakfast, she tasted it first. When I touched my husband’s hand, she interrupted with some absurd excuse.

Every evening, she knocked on our door, under the pretext of “saying goodnight.”
But her eyes weren’t on me – they were on Ethan, with a look that was both gentle and powerful.

“My son has always needed me,” she said once when we were alone.
“He’s fragile. Don’t try to change that.”

I realized: this wasn’t normal maternal love.

It was possessiveness disguised as love, and Ethan – the husband I loved – was being held back by it

One night, I woke to the sound of soft crying in the attic.
I walked up and opened the door to the room that had been locked since I moved in.

In the dim yellow light, I saw old photos plastered all over the wall: pictures of Ethan from childhood to adulthood – mostly alone or with his mother.

On the table, there was a diary.

The first page read:

“After the accident, it was just you and me. Your father died, but people blamed your mother.”

“From then on, I swore I would never let anyone take you away again.”

I shivered.

The next page had scribbled, erased, and repeated words:

“She can’t take him away. No one can.”

And at the bottom was my wedding photo – my face torn to shreds.

I brought the diary to Ethan to see.

He was silent for a long time, then said:

“When I was 10, my father died in a fire. The police suspected my mother of causing it, but there was not enough evidence.

She lost all faith, and from then on she kept me by her side.

Anyone who came near me – friends, girlfriends – disappeared.”

I choked up.

“Do you believe your mother is hiding something?”
He nodded:
“I always felt… my father’s death was not an accident.”
One evening, I decided to confront her.

When Ethan went out, I looked for Margaret in the study.

“You don’t have to control him anymore,” I said, my voice trembling but clear.
“You saved him from the world, but you also kept him in fear.”

She looked up, her pale gray eyes flashing with anger.

“You don’t understand. The world took everything from me. I only kept what was left!”

“But you’re killing your son,” I replied.

She stood up, approached me, her voice cold:

“If you really love him, then leave. Because one day, you too will disappear – like his father, like everyone else.”

The next morning, Ethan and I prepared to leave the house.
But as we walked out the door, the maid handed me an envelope.
Inside was a letter, in a familiar handwriting:

“Claire, please forgive me.
The accident back then… I didn’t cause it.
But I let him die, because I believed he wanted to take you away.
I just wanted to keep you safe, but now I know, safety is not imprisonment.
Let my son be free.”

Ethan finished reading, speechless.

From afar, Margaret stood by the window, her eyes wet, but more peaceful than ever.

A month later, we moved out of our old house and into another city. Ethan began therapy, learning to separate from the invisible dependency that had followed him throughout his childhood.

As for me, I pray every night for that mother – a woman both pitiful and terrifying, imprisoned in her own obsession.

“Love doesn’t always kill,” I wrote in my diary,
“But possession in the name of love – it can.”