After marrying my childhood best friend, I believed life had finally come full circle. Michael and I had shared schoolyard secrets and teenage dreams, and now we shared a last name. I thought nothing could go wrong—until our wedding night, when he handed me a notebook that would unravel everything.
We’d reunited by chance, bumping into each other outside our old favorite coffee shop. One moment of surprise led to hours of conversation that felt like no time had passed. Coffee turned to lunch, then into daily calls and long walks. In no time, Michael was proposing by the lake where we used to sit and plan our futures. I said yes without hesitation. Two months later, we were married.
That evening, we arrived at his family home—the same one where we’d spent countless summer afternoons as kids. It was frozen in time, down to the wallpaper in the hallway. But something about Michael changed once we settled in that night. He sat on the bed, holding a worn notebook with a haunted look in his eyes.
He handed it to me. “It’s my mother’s,” he said quietly. “She kept notes. There’s something in here about our family… something you need to know.”
Inside were pages of her handwritten thoughts. At first, it seemed harmless, until Michael explained what they meant. According to her, there was a curse—one that doomed any woman who married into the family to misfortune and misery. He admitted he never fully believed it, but couldn’t ignore the pattern of failed marriages and tragedy that seemed to follow his relatives.
I tried to brush it off as superstition. But then strange things started happening. Our car broke down right before our honeymoon. My business, which I’d worked years to build, started collapsing from bizarre online attacks and false reviews. Someone broke into our home, though nothing was stolen. It was as if our lives had been tilted on their axis overnight.
Still, I refused to believe in curses—until one phone call changed everything. Michael’s mother, Marianne, had called to discuss Thanksgiving plans. After we hung up, I realized the line was still active. From the speaker, I heard her laugh as she bragged to Michael’s father about how her “curse” was working perfectly again. She mentioned my failing business, Michael’s stress, and even how she planned to ruin our holiday dinner.
I recorded the entire conversation.
That night, I played it for Michael. He sat in stunned silence as his mother’s voice revealed the truth—there was no curse. Just a manipulative woman pulling strings, poisoning her sons’ relationships from behind the curtain.
Michael insisted we confront her. We drove to his parents’ house and arrived unannounced. He didn’t waste time. He walked in, phone in hand, and demanded answers. Marianne tried to lie, but when the recording played, her mask slipped. Michael’s father, tired of keeping her secrets, finally confessed that she had done this for years—sabotaging every relationship, convinced she knew what was best for her sons.
Michael’s voice cracked with betrayal. “You said you loved me,” he told her. “But love doesn’t destroy. Love doesn’t manipulate.”
We left that night without another word. Outside under the stars, Michael looked shattered. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You didn’t deserve any of this.”
I took his hand. “We’re free now. That’s what matters.”
But as we walked away from the house, I knew the damage his mother caused would take time to heal. She didn’t just try to break us apart—she broke her own son’s trust. And Michael would carry that scar for a long time. But at least now, we could begin again—no curses, no secrets. Just us
