She was staggering, smelling of alcohol, but her eyes were completely clear.
“Claire, downstairs is too noisy,” she said, her voice sweet but cold.
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 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
As I cooked breakfast, she tasted it first. As 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.”
However 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.
Continue reading…
