The night of my wedding was supposed to be the beginning of a new life—bright, tender, filled with love. I dreamed of falling asleep in my husband’s arms, finally calling him mine forever. But fate had other plans.

I had just wiped off my makeup when the door swung open—and there stood his mother. Drunk, hair disheveled, eyes glinting with something predatory.

“Mom’s had a bit too much,” Ethan mumbled awkwardly. “She can just lie down here for a while.”

I stood frozen, clutching a pillow, unable to believe what was happening. The night of our wedding. Our bed. And his mother.

I said nothing, stepped aside, telling myself it was just one night—just to avoid a scene.

But at dawn, when I returned to the bedroom, the air felt frozen. The sheets were rumpled, the scent of perfume—wasn’t mine. And on the pristine white fabric—there was a dark stain. Dry in the center, damp at the edges. And the smell… wasn’t alcohol.

I froze, barely able to breathe. Margaret woke up first—fresh, composed, a faint, almost innocent smile on her lips.

“Oh, dear, I guess I fell asleep right here…” she said, covering the sheets with her hand.

Ethan lay beside her, pretending to be asleep.

I didn’t know what had happened that night. But from that morning, my marriage felt… different—fragile, cold, uneasy.

Gradually, I began to notice—Margaret was more than a mother. She was… a guardian, a shadow, a predator.

She showed up in every detail: in her words, her looks, even in the food, which she “tasted first.” She didn’t just love her son—she lived through him.

Then, by accident, I found an old diary.

Yellowed pages. The handwriting—hers. One sentence, crossed out but still legible through the tears:

“She won’t take him. No one will.”

From that moment, I realized—the stain on the sheet wasn’t just dirt.
It was a warning.