Scott was thoughtful in a way that felt natural. He remembered little things: how I didn’t like pulp in my orange juice, the name of my high school English teacher, how I took my coffee. He called his mom every day. At the time, I thought it showed how loving and loyal he was. If he could care for her like that, I assumed he’d treat me the same way.
After we got married, Scott moved into the home I’d inherited from my late aunt—a house I’d spent years renovating and making my own. One week into our marriage, the doorbell rang. There stood Gloria, his mother, with two large suitcases and a polite smile.
“I’m here to help you both settle in,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
That night, I gently brought it up to Scott. “She’s just… moving in? Without us discussing it?” He looked at me with a mix of guilt and hesitation. “She’s been lonely since Dad passed. I thought this might give her some comfort.” I tried to understand—grief affects everyone differently. But I set a boundary: “Two months, okay? Just until she’s back on her feet.”
