Before I could speak, Ethan followed her in and murmured that she was too drunk, that it was noisy downstairs, that she needed to lie down for a bit. I offered to help her to the living room, but he stopped me, insisting it was only one night, just one night. The wedding night. Fear of being labeled disrespectful, of starting my marriage with conflict, kept me silent. I gathered my pillow and walked downstairs, bitterness burning in my throat.

On the sofa, sleep refused to come. The house creaked, my thoughts raced, and unease wrapped around me like a cold blanket. What I found instead stopped my heart: the bed I had surrendered held my husband and his mother lying far too close, his back turned, her body angled toward him. And on the white sheet, stark and unmistakable, was a dried reddish-brown stain. It wasn’t the smell of alcohol that filled my nose. It was something metallic, wrong. Margaret sprang up with unnatural speed, pulling the blanket tight, smiling too brightly, insisting she’d slept soundly. Ethan didn’t move. He didn’t look at me. That silence screamed louder than any confession ever could.