Lucas and I had been together for two years before we got married. Back then, he was gentle, attentive, the kind of man who spoke softly and made you feel safe just by standing near you. I truly believed I had found the kind of love people search for their whole lives.
Our wedding had been warm, full of laughter and blessings from both families. My mother had given us a three-story house as a gift—her life’s savings poured into something she said would “protect me no matter what.” The deed was in my name. I remember hugging her tightly that day, not realizing how much that would matter later.
In the early days of marriage, I tried my best to be everything a wife should be. I worked at a bank, long hours, constant pressure. I left early in the mornings and came home late, exhausted but still trying to keep the house in order, trying to make time for dinners, for conversations, for us.
But Lucas’s mother—Mrs. Diane—never liked me.
“You’re never home,” she would say, her voice sharp with disapproval. “A woman should take care of her family first.”
I never argued. I just nodded, apologized, and tried harder. I thought if I kept adjusting, eventually she would accept me.
I was wrong.