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.
The next morning, I went back to the room to call Etha for breakfast.
The door was ajar.
Empυjé sυavemeпte…
The room was empty.
The sheets were wrinkled, the smell of perfume was strong and on the nightstand there was an old photograph: a picture of Etha at eight years old, sitting on his mother’s lap, with his father standing behind him but with half of his face cut off.
